Tire Tracks and Spent Casings
by MP5
Summary: Section 2 Cyborgs generally don't know how to drive, and must rely on their handlers for transportation. Not this one. Full Summary inside.
1. Chapter 1

**Tire Tracks and Spent Casings**

**A Gunslinger Girl Fanfic by MP5**

**Summary:** Section 2 Cyborgs generally don't know how to drive, and must rely on their handlers for transportation. Not this one. This is the story of Allison, the 'Petrolhead Princess' of Section 2, and her handler Brian McDonnell. The abilities of this pair, whether behind the sights of a gun or behind the wheel of a vehicle, will make an impact on how the SWA doctrine on _Fratello_ operations for years to come.

Disclaimer: Gunslinger Girl is the property of Yu Aida. All trademarks featured herein are copyright their respective owners. Allison, Brian, as well as other original characters herein are property of MP5 unless otherwise noted.

**Chapter 1**

"So what's a pretty girl like you doing way out here?" asked Marconi D'Innocenzo. The Padanian cell leader was speaking to a ponytailed brunette who was half-sitting, half-leaning on the hood of a bright red Mazdaspeed MX-5 at a rest stop some distance from Tuscany along a beautiful stretch of winding tarmac that wove through the Italian countryside. Marconi was laying low after a spate of successful kidnappings in Rome. It did not seem like such a bad thing to enjoy himself in the meantime, and today he had decided to take his Lamborghini Gallardo Spyder for a spin in the wonderful sunny weather around Tuscany.

"Not much; I fancied a drive. I love these roads, personally." replied the brunette. "And the weather is much better here, not all dreary and rainy like it is back home."

Marconi noticed the license plate on the MX-5. He saw the EU registration plate indicated the car was registered in Great Britain. "Ah, you're English? Your Italian is impeccably good. What part of the UK are you from?" he asked, this time in a tongue foreign to him, yet one in which he was fluent.

"I'm from Wales, but I got here from London on holiday." she replied in English. "I can only take so much of dorm life before I go crazy."

"You are a college student? What are you majoring in?"

"I thought I would like to do something related to the auto industry, so I chose public relations and marketing. If it's one thing I'm good at, it's expressing how great a car is compared to other ones."

"I take it you'll work for Mazda when you get out?" asked the unassuming insurgent, indicating the brunette's car.

"If they keep making cars like this, sure. This is the Mazdaspeed MX-5. She's a real firecracker, and a blast to drive on these hills. Nice Lamborghini, by the way."

"Thanks. I worked hard to get her." replied Marconi. _Certainly, those exorbitant ransom prices helped to pay for this,_ he added mentally.

"You sure you're not just showing off, though? I imagine a lot of people get the impression you're a rich playboy of some sort, driving around in that." said the brunette.

"If that is the impression I make, well, I see no problem with that. In fact, I am honored by such thoughts." said Marconi confidently. "And don't worry, I may not look it, but I'm a good driver."

"Would you like to prove that in a race?" challenged the brunette, a smirk on her face. Marconi smiled and shook his head.

"In that thing? Against my Gallardo? My dear, I would leave you in the dust before you could even make the first turn." the man replied.

"This is perfect territory for my MX-5. Plenty of corners, nice and exciting, just the way it should be. You might have V10 hustle, but only in the straights. You still have to slow down to take the corners, which evens the playing field rather nicely." countered the girl, glancing at him as she tilted down her sunglasses.

"You make a good point. For a young lady like you, you definitely know your stuff. Perhaps this will be a challenge after all."

"I know my cars. Care to make a wager?"

"What do you have in mind?" asked Marconi.

"There's a great restaurant several miles from here. That'll be our finish line. If I win, I would like you to buy me lunch and hand me the registration and title for your Lamborghini." offered the college student.

"That's quite a tall order." said Marconi, taken aback by her wager on his part. But at 25, he was young and stupid compared to his comrades in Padania, and so his arrogance began to take hold. "All right, I'll take you on. What do I get if _I_ win?"

She put up her sunglasses over her eyes. "If you win, I'll give you the title and registration to my car. That, and, well... I've never been in bed with a handsome _Italian_ man before." she proffered, stifling an internal urge to shiver.

"I like the sound of that." said Marconi, roving his eyes over the brunette's shapely figure. "You've got yourself a race then."

The two shook hands and got into their respective machines. Marconi showed off as he started his Lamborghini's engine and revved it, filling the air with the V10 exhaust note. His opponent's turbocharged 1.8L I4 didn't sound as impressive, but she gave it a few healthy revs as well. Pulling out into the intersection, they lined up at the traffic lights and waited for the green light. Both watched intensely as the light remained red. Then it changed to green, and in a chaotic spat of screeching tires and smoke, they took off on the hillside pass. Marconi leapt to the lead in his Gallardo, flexing the 513hp muscle of the midship-mounted V10 engine as they screamed down the straightaway. At the first turn, a hard left-hander, he encountered what his opponent had predicted and was forced to slow down to take the corner. What he least expected was for his opponent to come flying through the corner _sideways_ in a opposite-lock drift. Because she kept a higher speed through the turn, she was on his tail in no time, and she even passed him at the next corner.

_Is she a racing driver?_ wondered Marconi. _What have I gotten myself into? At this rate, I'll lose my car!_

As the two racers continued down the hillside pass, the brunette was speaking into a wireless earpiece connected to a personal two-way radio in her car. In her rearview mirror, she could easily see that Marconi was relying on horsepower to keep him in the race.

"Brian, he's taking the bait. Tell those guys up ahead to get ready. We're about ten seconds away from the intercept zone."

"Copy that, Allison. Don't get caught up in the trap." replied a voice on the other end.

"You know me better than that."

The brunette rounded the right-hand hairpin up ahead and then floored her gas pedal, Marconi not far behind. She saw a pair of white Ford Transit vans on either side of the road. She let up on the gas a little, allowing Marconi to breeze past her. She started braking hard to slow down her MX-5 immediately.

Checking his rearview mirror, Marconi noticed that his opponent had stopped her car entirely. As he brought his attention forward, he noticed too late that an X-Net car arrest device had been deployed right where he was about to pass over. As the tires rolled over the barbed spikes of the device, the net was wrapped around the front and rear tires of the €157,000 Euro supercar and immediately brought it to a hard emergency stop. Marconi was thrown forward, his seatbelt immediately grabbing his body but still allowing his head to smack the steering wheel. His car completely stationary, the brunette in the MX-5 quickly closed the gap between her own car and his while on the side of the road, some armed men and a 10-year-old girl with a Fabrique Nationale P90 began to advance on the car as well.

The brunette quickly got out of her MX-5 and moved in on Marconi. Realizing he was trapped, Marconi quickly extricated himself from his immobilized supercar and faced the brunette head-on armed only with a butterfly knife.

"You lying bitch! I'm gonna kill you, government whore!"

Marconi thrust his knife at the brunette, who blocked the knife by allowing it to penetrate her forearm. She immediately seized hold of his right arm and spun him around before she grabbed him by the back of his head and slammed him down hard, face-first, atop the engine bay of the Lamborghini. Using such inhuman strength, this hard and violent blow knocked Marconi unconscious and he slumped to the pavement in a heap. The threat over, the brunette looked at the Lamborghini to find that the impact of Marconi's head had left a dent on the engine bay cover of the Gallardo Spyder. Immediately, she apologetically caressed the hood, ignoring the knife still embedded in her forearm.

"I'm sorry baby, I didn't mean to hurt you! We'll get that nasty ol' ouchie buffed right out!"

The 10-year-old with the P90 approached the taller brunette, bewildered at her behavior.

"Allison, are you apologizing to that car?"

"Of course, Henrietta." replied the older girl. "Cars have feelings too, and I don't think they like dents very much. Especially supercars like this Lamborghini Gallardo."

"You know, while you've been apologizing to that thing, you've completely ignored the knife that's sticking out of your arm.

Maybe you should attend to that first, Allison." said a redheaded Irishman, approaching the two girls.

"The car takes precedence, Brian." replied the girl. "But if you insist."

She grasped the knife and quickly removed it, wincing as she did so. The Irishman handed her disinfectant and gauze which she expertly used to clean and then cover up her wound. She then lifted the hood of the Lamborghini's engine bay and grasping the other side with her fingers, used her thumbs on the bulge where the dent had formed. With a firm push, she popped the dented area back into form, and save for a few new ridges, it was almost impossible to tell that a head had been in contact with the metal. The rest could be buffed out later—that is, if Brian or Section 2 would allow her to keep the beautiful machine. And so a plan came to mind.

"Oh, Briiiian!"

"Yes, Allison?"

"Can I take--"

"For the last time, Allison, you don't go on missions just to take somebody's car that you fancy as a trophy. Besides, you're already taking up two parking spaces with your other cars, not counting my own! The Social Welfare Agency is not a bloody multi-car garage!" ranted the Irish handler.

"Pleeeaaaaaaaase?" whined the brunette, giving the Irishman puppy-dog eyes. He sighed reluctantly and made his reply.

"I'll see what I can do; but don't hold your breath."

"Yaaaay!" cried the brunette, latching onto her handler with a powerful hug. He rolled his eyes and smiled. Love her or hate her, you just couldn't say no to her.

Who is this brunette? These days, everyone calls her Allison, but she held the name of 'Shelby Mercer' in a past life. Her handler is Brian McDonnell, who was once an Irishman in the British Special Air Service before a training accident almost paralyzed him and retired him from the service. Together, they form a Generation II _Fratello _that marks the first dedicated mobile-attack team with driving skill to match—if not surpass—even the world's best race drivers.

This is the story of their adventures. Their tale is one of horsepower and gunpowder; of engine detonation and explosive detonation; a tale of Tire Tracks and Spent Casings.

Reviews are appreciated.


	2. Then and Now Part 1

**Tire Tracks and Spent Casings**

**A Gunslinger Girl Fanfic by MP5**

Disclaimer: Gunslinger Girl is the property of Yu Aida. All trademarks featured herein are copyright their respective owners. Allison, Brian, as well as other original characters herein are property of MP5 unless otherwise noted. Kara Pagani and Michele Pagani are the property of the author Kiskaloo.

**Chapter 2: Then and Now, Part 1**

Those who saw the Allison-Brian fratello pull into the SWA compound at dusk noted the paradoxical state of the resident Gen II cyborg driver. One half of this state was the fact that Allison was smiling. That in itself is not unusual, as Allison is a generally cheerful, exuberant girl, perhaps more so than her handler had expected to deal with. However, what was unusual was that while doing this, she was driving sedately, arriving _behind_ Giuseppe and Henrietta as they entered the parking lot. Normally, the gates had to be opened well in advance to anticipate Allison's heavy-footed driving, normally flying through the entryway at triple the posted limit before executing some kind of elaborate display reminiscent of the stunt driver Russ Swift before parking her car perfectly in its space as part of that stunt. They would also expect Brian McDonnell to be frightened, shaking, queasy, or any combination of the three as he got out of the passenger's side of whatever Allison chose to drive at the moment.

The confusing sight was quickly clarified once onlookers saw what they had dragged, or rather towed in with them behind one of the Ford Transit vans that had been on the mission to capture Marconi D'Innocenzo. Connected via a tow bar and transported **very** carefully was none other than Marconi's now captive Lamborghini Gallardo Spyder, with its orange color split down the middle by a very sporty black racing stripe, a custom paint job that the Padanian kidnapper had a shop apply to his most prized toy. A toy that was evidently now the trophy of Section 2's "Petrolhead Princess."

Allison pulled into her designated parking spot, in between a Lancia Delta HF Integrale Evoluzione II and a 1985 Toyota Corolla GT-S, both of which were hers as well. Brian got out first, grumbling about how he would have to file a request for yet _another_ additional parking spot. He passed another Gen II cyborg and her handler, this one of Franco-Japanese descent, and the cyborg had come out to meet Allison. More importantly, she had come to ask questions about the same model of supercar her handler had recently bought currently sitting in the parking lot hitched to a nondescript panel van.

"Hey, Allison." greeted the other cyborg with a wave.

"Hi, Kara!" replied Allison. "It's good to be back here after today."

"Something go bad on the mission?"

"Oh no, the mission went well, and I even had fun doing it!"

"I can imagine." said Kara before a burning question in her mind rose to the surface. "Let me cut to the chase. Just _how_," she began, pointing at the striped Gallardo Spyder, "did you bring that home? A present from Brian? Did he finally stumble upon some money?"

"Actually, I took it from the target of today's mission. He's been whisked away by the government; he's got no use for it anymore. I've been too hard on poor Brian's funds lately, what with my tuning and fuel usage and all. I had to beg him for this one, and when he realized this would be a freebie, all he had to do was place a call to Chief Lorenzo. I think I'm being sort of a pain, though."

"Trust me, Allison." said Kara's handler, Michele. "Compared to shelling out €200,000 Euros for that thing, Brian's getting the deal of the century when all he has to do is fill out a parking permit form and have someone fudge Marconi's title and registration so that the car is yours."

"I guess so, heh-heh." chuckled the British cyborg. Meanwhile, Kara was doing a walk-around of Allison's new trophy. She stopped when she came to the bonnet over the engine compartment and noted a deformation in the aluminum skin of the cover.

"Hey Allison, what happened here?"

Allison rushed over and saw what her friend was talking about. "Oh, _that_. Well, here's the thing. Marconi got pissed that I led him into the X-net trap and obviously wanted to kill me. He had just a knife, which explains this." she said, gesturing to her wounded arm. "So one thing led to another, and before I knew it, I smashed his head into the hood, and while that knocked him out, I hurt the poor baby, so I quickly popped most of the dent back out. I still need to buff it out, but after that, she'll be as good as new."

"You really love cars, don't you?" said Kara rhetorically.

"I could ask you the same question. I think we both know the answer to that, whether addressed to you or me." said Allison, and the two grinned. Michele approached them and shook Allison's hand.

"As a fellow Gallardo Spyder owner, all I can say is Congratulations. You'll definitely enjoy driving it."

Meanwhile, in his personal quarters, Brian was struggling to fill out paperwork so that his cyborg could keep her trophy car at the compound. Certainly, he was worried about how they would manage to tamper with Marconi's legal ownership of the car on paper. As he deliberated, he gazed upon a nondescript binder that he knew very well. Opening to the first page, he saw a picture of a blonde-haired teenage girl with brown eyes crouched next to a very clean brand-new Caterham Roadsport SV equipped with the wheels and tires from the Superlight models. The paint job on this particular Roadsport was a custom one, Pearlescent Lime Green with twin orange racing stripe. The girl in the picture was beaming with pride. As Brian looked at the page, he saw the caption under the picture:

"_Shelby Mercer, Age 17"_

Brian then thought back to the beginnings of his partnership with Allison. Nearly a decade earlier, he had been a young _Leftenant_ in the 22 Regiment Special Air Service. Not bad for a half-bred Northern Ireland boy who bore a nickname his mates had given him. Back then, he was referred to as "The Belfast Bastard," a moniker that Brian wears to this day as a badge of pride, even when some others didn't share the sentiment. However, "The Belfast Bastard" who had recently gained his new rank barely had any time to enjoy its privileges or shoulder its responsibilities. Shortly after his promotion after a tour of duty in the much-maligned Balkans conflicts of the 1990's, Brian was sidelined from duty and eventually retired when an incident during fast rope training nearly paralyzed him. Months of slow rehabilitation washed him out of service with an honorable discharge, but his military career had essentially been over from that point on. A brief but profitable stint with a Private Security Company followed, and when that company folded, he found himself floundering in the Security bubble burst. It was around this time that Jean and Giuseppe Croce, whom he had worked with in a joint-operation in Bosnia, approached him with a rather unconventional job offer. Once he had heard what they had to say, the conversation went something like this:

"_All right, so if I understand correctly, what you want me to do is be a partner for a multi-million Euro __**teenage cyborg girl**__ and train her and go on black ops with her for the Italian Government?" asked Brian, summing up the two brothers' explanation. They were sitting in a London pub, talking over pints of Guinness._

"_Well, when you put it that way, that's the gist of the job." replied Giuseppe sheepishly._

"_I still have a hard time believing that's what you two have been doing all these years, you both gotta be taking the piss. Anyhow, I'm long since out of the regiment. What makes you think I'm qualified for this cloak-and-dagger Mickey?"_

"_If we could draw a 40-year-old about to go into his midlife crisis back into working these missions and still have him be sharp, then you shouldn't have any problem at your age, Brian." stated Jean matter of factly. "Besides, you're former SAS and you still carried those skills to the private sector. And you just got out of that, so we figured now was as good a time as any to talk to you. Besides, do you really think you've exercised your full potential so quickly?"_

"_Point taken, Jean." replied Brian as he took a pull from his pint of stout. "All right, suppose I do take this job. What's in it for me?"_

"_The pay is almost as good as what you'll find in the private sector. You'll also have access to the latest weapons and equipment, and you can choose to stay off-site somewhere in Rome or at the handlers' dorm. We have a full cafeteria and staff on-site, as well as a kill house, shooting range, obstacle course, and pool."_

"That's not too bad._" thought Brian. "So who am I going to be assigned to?"_

_Jean slid over a green binder for Brian to look through. As he started reading, Jean made further explanations._

"_We have a full profile on her past identity. If there's anything you don't like or don't find suitable in there, we can have that corrected upon request. For instance, if you're not too sure about her driving-"_

"_Actually, I'll keep that for her." said Brian. "I'm not the kind of guy who takes away what someone knows. In fact, I can probably teach her what I know about combat driving."_

_Jean blinked, then continued. "I suppose that's reasonable, but wouldn't you prefer for her to be a field operator?"_

"_My skills aren't _that_ fresh, Jean." stated Brian. It's been a good couple of years, shit changes when you've been gone that long. I think what I want to do is keep pace with her when getting back into the game."_

"_Suit yourself." said Jean. It was Giuseppe's turn to speak._

"_So are you sold on it? Would you like to come see her?"_

"_In about a week. I need to seriously think about this."_

_When Brian saw Shelby for the first time, he was amazed. The Social Welfare Agency had done an amazing job repairing her injuries from her accident, and she was as beautiful as she was before, and stronger too, her skeleton having been enhanced with Carbon Fiber Reinforced Plastic and titanium. From what he saw, Brian was hard-pressed to believe that little more than a month ago, this girl had been broadsided along with her family by an intoxicated truck driver at the wheel of an Iveco Stralis doing seventy miles per hour through the intersection—one where he had the red light. A severed power line and leaking fuel had given Shelby Mercer 3rd-degree burns over 75 percent of her body less than a minute after her family's Ford Fiesta had been propelled into a telephone pole like a hockey puck. Yet there was no evidence this had ever happened, thanks to the mastery of the Social Welfare Agency's surgeons._

_As he mulled his final decision over, he made peace with himself and accepted the responsibility his new job would entail._

"_A couple things I want, Jean." said Brian._

"_Shoot."_

"_I want her marksmanship to be excellent-"_

"_That's usually already standard."_

"_Fine, but I want to train her a little more, though an encyclopedic knowledge of firearms is appreciated. Second, I heard about the conditioning. I want her conditioning to be a little less than the bare minimum. I'm not a fan of brainwashing."_

"_She'll be more than a handful, Brian. And any side effects that pop up could be ugly."_

"_Leave that to me. I'm her new guardian, I should be the one to take care of her and help her along the way. Also, change her hair and eye color. I'd like her to be a blue-eyed brunette. And finally, give her a little extra armor, the kind that'll stop .30-ought-six."_

"_Is that all?"_

"_Yes."_

"_That's settled, then. Come back in a day or two, the doctors will be finished with the changes by that time." _

_Two days later, Brian returned to the Section 2 Compound to meet his cyborg as she awoke. In the monitoring room next to his cyborg's post-op bed, behind a one-way mirror, Brian was hammering down final details with Ferro, who was typing information into a computer terminal._

"_So what will you name her?"_

"_...Allison. Allison McDonnell."_

"_You want her to share your surname?"_

"_The way I see it, everyone should have a family to call their own."_

"_As you say." replied Ferro, typing in the information into her PC. A quick sound alerted them to the fact that Allison was waking up._

"_Better go greet her, Brian."_

_The Irishman stepped out of the observation room and opened the door to Allison's temporary bedroom. As he shut the door behind him, Allison slowly rose from under the covers, dressed in a thin hospital gown. She awoke like a true sedate teenager, yawning as she sat up, smacking her lips once or twice. Brian chuckled; at first glance, Allison really was just a normal teenage girl._

"_Good morning, sleepyhead. You rest well?" asked Brian, approaching her bedside._

"_Of course!" replied Allison cheerfully. Brian smiled at her, and she returned the smile._

"_You mind telling me your name?"_

"_Allison. Allison McDonnell. And you are my handler, Brian McDonnell!" she stated happily. Brian hid the slight displeasure at the title of 'handler'. Allison was a person, not a trained animal._

"_That's correct, Allison. But please, consider me a partner, and call me Brian. I'm not comfortable with being referred to as your 'handler'. You all right with that?"_

"_Sure, no problem, Brian!"_

_Brian smiled for the second time in five minutes. He never asked for her to be so sunny and cheerful, but she was very lightly conditioned, and the result was the exposure of her true personality. The smile faded from his face as he produced a metallic case, no bigger or wider than a sheet of printer paper. Setting it down at the foot of Allison's bed, he watched as she opened the case's latches. Opening the case itself, Allison found a M1911-style pistol with cocking serrations at the front and back of the slide and featured a small tactical rail integrated into the frame. The case included three 7-round magazines, two other guide rods, a threaded barrel, and a large box of .45 ACP ammunition. Lifting the pistol out of its case, Allison inspected it as she hefted the empty gun, pulling back the slide and checking for a round in-battery to verify if it was loaded or not._

"_Do you know what this weapon is, Allison?" Brian asked._

"_Of course. It's an American-made Kimber Custom TLE/RL II. You can tell by the cocking serrations, located at the front and rear, and the tactical rail they built into the frame. 5-inch barrel, flat-top slide with fixed Tritium night sights, and chambered for .45 Automatic Colt Pistol ammo. A standard modernized version of the Colt M1911A1, built for usage by Tactical Law-Enforcement teams like SWAT and Special Response Teams. " Allison answered, racking the slide and dry-firing the weapon in a safe direction. But pulling the trigger made her notice more about it._

"_Wait a minute. This isn't a stock Custom II. The trigger pull feels lighter. It's match grade, but the normal pull is about 4-5 pounds. This one is 2.8 pounds."_

_She then flicked a small tab on the slide stop so that its protrusion was in line with the slide stop. This suddenly lit up a red dot where she aimed the weapon. "A LaserMax Internal Laser Sight? Wow! This thing's amazing! But won't this give away my position?" she asked Brian._

_Trying to hide his astonishment at her spot-on analysis of her sidearm, he answered, "That's why there's two other guide rods. Section 2 had LaserMax create a separate IR laser sight, and the other guide rod is the stock guide rod on the Custom TLE. We figured this would leave you free to install a flashlight—if you were so inclined."_

"_Did you choose this for me?"_

"_Well, of course I did-"_

"_Thank you Brian, I'll treasure it forever!" chirped Allison with a smile._

"_Uh... you're welcome, I guess." the Irishman replied, unsure how to feel. He then produced another object, this one a bundle of clothing. Allison unwrapped it to find an outfit consisting of a pleated skirt, thigh-high stockings, Nike sneakers, and a v-neck cashmere sweater._

"_Get dressed." said Brian. "The weather's lovely outside, and I still have something else for you, but we have to go somewhere to get it. Meet me in the parking lot when you're done getting dressed, all right?"_

_With that, Brian exited the room, and Allison quickly started changing into her new outfit._

Brian looked up at the sound of a V10 engine's roar followed by the whining and whistling cacophony of a twincharged 4-cylinder engine. His window had a direct view of the new test track that was on the grounds of the Section 2 compound. He brought out his binoculars to observe, and he smiled as he saw Kara driving the recently-acquired Gallardo Spyder, generously lent to her by Allison, who was following close behind in her tuned-up Corolla GT-S, the 1985 liftback model known in Japan as the "Hachi-Roku," or Eight-Six due to its chassis code, AE86. Allison's AE86 was the same model as the Japan-market Toyota Sprinter Trueno. However, Allison herself had since yanked out the stock 4A-GEU engine and replaced it with a 1600cc Supercharged 4A-GZE engine from a Toyota MR2, and then added a turbocharger to create a powerful forced-induction engine with almost zero lag in boost. She also went on to modify other parts of the car; adding a racing seat for the driver, changing out the exhaust system, installing a boost controller, setting up a slight negative-camber angle of her tires and suspension for easy drifting while still being safe to drive on the streets, and mating the engine to a new transmission. Of course, Brian footed the bill for Allison's expensive hobby, luckily having saved the surplus cash from his work in the private sector. As he watched the two cyborg girls race around the test track, he sighed and wondered if it really was such a long time ago when he bought Allison the first car she could call her own.

_Allison hurried out to the parking lot to find Brian leaning against the hood of a bright red Audi RS6 sedan, keys in hand as Allison approached._

"_Here, catch." was all the warning Brian gave before tossing the keys to Allison, who caught them with a little surprise._

"_Check your wallet. You have all you need."_

_Allison did just that, and inspected the contents of her wallet. She found her Italian Identity cards, both the electronic and paper versions, two United Kingdom National Identity Cards, one identifying her as "Mary Ainsworth", the other as "Allison McDonnell, Code B-marked UK driver's licenses with the same identities as her National Identity Cards, and most importantly, her Patente B driver's license, which was accepted in all EU member countries. The license itself was genuine, but off-record, Allison was chronologically 17 years old, about a year short of legal driving age for an automobile._

"_Wait, you mean I'm driving?" she asked, looking up from her license._

"_Exactly. Hop in, I'm bringing you to where I have another special something to give you."_

_Allison grinned and made a beeline for the driver's side door as Brian smiled and rode shotgun. The two buckled in, and Allison automatically adjusted the rearview mirror and side mirrors like a safe driver would do. Releasing the handbrake and placing the car into its Tiptronic clutchless manual transmission, she pulled the car out of its parking space and proceeded out of the parking lot._

"_Allison, make sure to follow the SatNav directions. The final destination on its map is where we need to go."_

"_All right, I got it."_

_Once Allison turned onto the street, she increased throttle and the 5-Liter V10 FSI twin-turbocharged engine roared as she followed the satellite navigation map on the in-dash entertainment and info console with a pace that significantly elevated Brian's heart rate all the way to their destination. They arrived at an independent pre-owned car dealer just a few kilometers near the Rome city limits. Brian blinked several times as he got out of the passenger's seat, clearing his head of the dizzying sensation he got while Allison was driving._

"_Are you all right, Brian?" Allison asked, fearful and concerned she'd hurt her handler._

"_I'm fine, just give me a moment to get my bearings... one thing's for sure. The way you drive, we won't be wanting for speed. And that's a good thing, I'm all right now, and we can get on with what we came here to do."_

"_What are we doing here, anyway?" asked Allison._

"_Taking a look at some cars. We'll need to pick one for missions. Take your time and pick one out that suits your skills and taste, because that will be your car. Try to pick something that's got hustle, agility, and preferably Italian."_

_So Allison perused the lot, which had a myriad number of vehicles in all shapes and sizes. She knew what to bypass, though, and she found herself amongst the higher-end sports cars and sport compacts. She walked amongst reborn classic hot hatches like the Golf GTI, and current ones, like the Honda Civic Type R. She gave Alfa Romeo GTVs and Fiat Coupés a once-over. She even considered a Nissan Skyline GT-R R34 before shaking her head and moving along. Then, she found the machine of her choice. It sat parked on a revolving pedestal, further glorifying her final choice. It was a 1994 Lancia Delta HF Integrale Evoluzione II, one of the greatest cars ever made in Italy that did not come with a six-figure price tag. With a 215 hp Garrett-turbocharged engine, all-wheel drive, the best engine management software offered by Lancia yet, and only 4223 of them sold, it was the greatest out of the Lancia Delta line before the second generation of Deltas lost their rallying pedigree with the introduction of the Nuova Delta, a front-wheel-drive hatchback based on a Fiat platform._

_Allison strode up to the revolving platform and eyed the Evoluzione with a lustful gaze. In her eyes, at this very moment, it was the most perfect car in the world (perhaps presented as such thanks to the 'halo' of lights shining down on it). She had to have it _now,_ despite never having driven it before, because she could tell it was special in its own unique way. Her eyes lingered on the slowly-turning Lancia a little longer before turning to face Brian, who had been watching with mirth along with the dealership's proprietor._

"_I think I found what I want. Can we get this one?" Allison asked._

"_I dunno, _can_ we? _Should _we?" joked Brian, having a little fun at Allison's expense._

"_YES! We _should_ get this car! We _have_ to get this car!" Allison argued, getting impatient. Brian just smiled._

"_Then I was way ahead of you, and it looks like I called it right." said Brian. He produced a set of keys to the Lancia from his pocket and tossed them to Allison. As she caught them, she did a double-take between the keys and the Lancia on the revolving pedestal._

"_You mean-"_

"_Yes, Allison. I bought it ahead of time hoping you would choose this. It was a gamble, but I'm naturally lucky."_

_Allison was speechless as she stared at the car keys in her hand. When her brain seemed to be able to function again, she had no idea what else to do except grin widely, stash the keys into her pocket, and thank her handler with a flying tackle of an energetic hug._

Brian finished the parking request and kicked back in his chair. Over time, one car became two. Then three. Now, it was four. He brought up his binoculars again, smiling as he saw Allison's grinning face as she pulled into the pit lane with Kara, who moved to the passenger's seat and belted in as Allison prepared to take the Gallardo out herself. As they peeled off onto the track again, Brian looked to his wall and saw the silhouette target Allison had shot up with her primary weapon and sidearm during their first target practice session. Holes had been blown neatly and clearly through the head and chest areas with both weapons in as short a time as she could muster.

_At the SWA compound's indoor shooting range, Brian handed over to Allison an Israeli Weapons Industries Tavor CTAR-21 carbine. This was the shortened version of the Tavor TAR-21 bullpup assault rifle currently being fielded by the Israeli Defense Forces, and while they normally came with a pre-installed and zeroed ITL MARS reflex sight with integrated laser sight, this one had been modified with a series of 20mm Picatinny Rails for attachment of modular accessories. In particular, this one had an EOTech 556 Holographic Weapon Sight mounted atop the 20mm rail that sat between the backup iron sights._

_On the counter in front of Allison were boxes of ammunition and magazines for her Tavor and her Kimber. She had loaded three magazines for each of her weapons, and once loaded, proceeded to place the remaining two spare magazines somewhere she could access them easily. Her Custom TLE/RL II now sat in a Milt Sparks Summer Special 2 inside-the-waistband holster, the spare pistol magazines in an adjacent magazine carrier. For her Tavor, the two spare 30-round magazines sat in a single belt-mounted dual mag pouch. Attached to these magazines were a section of parachute cord held in place as a loop on the bottom of the magazine by two pieces of gaffer tape. These crude attachments made it easier to remove the fresh magazines with speed from the pouch._

"_All right, Allison. Empty three mags from each weapon as fast as you can into the target, and as accurately as possible. Are you ready?" asked Brian, holding a timer as he secured his hearing protection._

"_Call it, Brian." replied Allison, shouldering the Tavor._

"_Go!"_

_A buzzer sounded, signaling Allison to start shooting. Allison cranked off five six-round bursts at the target in roughly three seconds. She swapped magazines, letting the empty one fall to the floor, and with the new magazines properly seated, she pressed the bolt catch release switch, and this time completely leaned on the trigger. Her cybernetic enhancements compensated for the minuscule recoil and muzzle rise that the weapon generated, and while the holographic sight picture of the mounted EOTech HWS danced a little, her shots were dead-on, this time in the head area. Switching to her third magazine, she did another full-auto mag dump, this time in the target's center of mass. As soon as her Tavor was dry, Allison let the sling-equipped carbine hang free as she transitioned to her Kimber, releasing the safety as she drew it and began popping off double-taps at the target's center of mass. It took less than five seconds to switch weapons and empty the Wilson Combat seven-round magazine into the target, and as the slide locked to the rear, she ejected the empty magazine and whipped in the new one, releasing the slide to chamber the first round. She repeated this process until the last magazine went dry. She quickly checked to make sure the chamber was clear, then she released the slide, released the hammer, and then safed and holstered the pistol._

"_Impressive work, Allison. 28.5 seconds total." noted Brian, showing her the stopwatch._

"_Can we see the groupings?" asked Allison. Her partner nodded and pressed the 'retrieve' button for the target winch and the now-perforated target zipped back to the pair. Brian let out a low whistle as he got a closer look at the groupings on the target._

"_Wow, this is fantastic! 2" groupings with all the ammo you used. Job well done, Allison. Couldn't have done that better myself!"_

_Allison grinned under the praise. However, for her to truly fall into her own, still much rigorous training was ahead._

_As her Lancia began to slide its tail to the right at the last corner of the improvised Gymkhana course, Allison quickly countersteered right into the sweeping left-hander and feathered the throttle to keep the initiated drift going. As her right hand took care of the steering and her left foot kept the rear tires sliding by intermittently depressing and releasing the clutch pedal to keep the revs built up. This made her left hand free to aim her Kimber out the window and pop off a flurry of rounds at steel plate targets no larger than a regulation playing card. Out of seven targets, she hit six, and could do nothing about the one she missed, proceeding instead to the finish line of the course, where Brian was waiting with spare magazines and a stopwatch._

"_Still almost two minutes, Allison. I want you to do the course again, and make sure you nail all the targets this time. You were very close, but you still need to get it right in one run. If you get it right once, I expect you to get it right a second, third, and fourth time, until that run and its dynamics are committed to your memory, understand?" said Brian, clearing the stopwatch and retrieving the spent magazines._

"_Yes, sir. No mistakes." replied Allison, feeding a fresh magazine into her Kimber._

"_Good girl. Drive to the starting line, I'll reset the targets."_

_Allison brought her car around to the start of the course while Brian pressed a button on a remote to prop the steel targets back up. Once Allison was ready, she built up her engine revs while Brian used a hand-signal countdown. As soon as he dropped his arm, Allison went for it, quickly shifting through the gears as she approached the first set of targets perched on the straightaway. Aiming her Kimber out the window, she started squeezing away, downing the targets in quick succession. Quickly, Allison took her right hand off the wheel for a lightning-fast reload and then quickly downshifted as she hit the brakes upon approaching a set of cones, coming to a stop. She then threw the car in reverse and swung the car around, reversing through a slight chicane. Still in reverse, Allison aimed her pistol out the window and fired at another seven targets, downing them as her car moved past. Another hard yank of the steering wheel to the left swung the Lancia front-first to the right as she straightened out, popped the clutch, shifted into first, and tromped down on the accelerator as she resumed normal forward motion, reloading her Kimber in between gearshifts. Up ahead was a cluster of targets positioned in a circle. As Allison approached them, she started the car drifting again, but this time held it so that she would drift around the targets in a donut pattern, downing the steel targets as her front end slid past. She continued to the last two parts of the course, a right-hand sweeping turn followed by a left-hander. As she drifted past the right-hander and downed the targets, she prepared herself for the last turn, which messed her up last time. She slid the car into another four-wheel drift, and after popping off six rounds in succession, she paused a beat, and then downed the seventh with the last cartridge of ammunition she had. She now had the timing correct, and a big grin was visible on her face as she drove towards a smiling Brian._

"_Nice job. You think you can do that again?"_

"_Reset the targets, Brian. I'll show you that I can."_

_Once she was topped off on ammunition, she did the course flawlessly a second time. And a third. And a fourth. And a fifth._

Brian's gaze shifted from the paper/cardboard target to a picture on his desk. It was a picture of himself, Allison, and his half-American cousin, Tommy, in front of Giants Stadium sometime after the New York Giants' October 31, 2005 win against the Washington Redskins. This was taken sometime after her first field trial once she completed basic training. As a Generation II cyborg, Allison was certainly capable of doing reconnaissance and intelligence-gathering missions. To test those basics, Brian had arranged for a trip to New York City rather than simply somewhere in Rome, where there was a higher chance of information leaks from the local police who may in turn be connected with the PRF. Knowing his cousin was involved with the investigation of gang-related crime, Brian thought the opportunity presented itself to put Allison's practiced skills—foreign languages, driving, disguise and camouflage (thanks in great part to Alessandro and Petrushka), and combat skills—to use against a defined enemy. Still though, this meant explaining Allison's presence to his cousin without giving away too much. In a matter of days, Brian hatched a cover story with Alessandro's help that was partially truthful, but would hopefully keep his cousin Tommy from asking too much.

_Detective Thomas McDonnell of the NYPD's 46th Precinct was busy poring over notes for a potential sting operation inside his office. As an officer assigned to an Organized crime task force in the area nearest the Morris Heights section of the Bronx, he had been dealing with cases that often involved the Morris Heights set of a primarily Hispanic gang known as the Trinitarios. They were the fastest-growing gang in New York, with roughly up to 10,000 members. Thomas' own precinct had their hands full enough with the local set, and progress had been slow in shutting them down. That was to be expected in an area that was one of the poorest communities in America, where students went to school passing through metal detectors and swiping ID cards, where drug addiction was high, and most of the male residents have been arrested at some point in their lives._

_A secretary opened the door to his office. "Detective McDonnell, you have a visitor to see you."_

"_Not now." said Tommy. "I'm busy here."_

"_What, I come all this way to visit my dear old cousin, and this is the reception I get?"_

_Tommy looked up from his notes and saw Brian leaning against the door jamb, giving him a wave. Tommy shook his head and shifted his papers aside for later as he came to give Brian a hug. Allison sat in the adjacent hallway, quickly assessing the detective currently greeting Brian as a non-threat._

"_If it isn't my Limey-Mick cousin Brian." said Tommy coarsely but jovially. "How you been, man? I haven't seen you in the past couple of years. Sorry about aunt Claire." he added, his condolences referring to Brian's mother, who had passed away some time before Brian joined Section II._

"_It was a tough loss, but all I could really do was move on, you know? I've managed to find some work again."_

"_Hey that's good, man! More of the same, I take it?"_

"_Sort of. I'm a consultant for some government agencies across the pond. Oh, and there's someone I'd like to introduce to you."_

_Brian waved Allison in, and she stood up and strode into the office._

"_Tommy, this is Allison. As of a couple months ago, she's my adopted sister, and by extension, your new cousin."_

"_Nice to meet you, uh, Cousin Tommy." greeted Allison nervously. Tommy chuckled._

"_Always full of surprises, ain't ya, Brian? Well, it's nice to meet you too, Allison. How old are you?"_

"_17."_

"_Oh man, I gotta get you a present for your next birthday, and Christmas, too!"_

"_Well if it helps, Tommy," offered Brian, "she's really into cars."_

"_She is?" asked Tommy. "That helps. What do you think of the NYPD's cruisers, Allison?"_

"_The Crown Vic has enjoyed its throne long enough. As I see it, the only way for it to stay on the throne against the new Dodge Charger is to stick a little extra oomph under the bonnet. Maybe a supercharger or some twin turbochargers will toss a little heat in its trousers. But then again, I don't think you guys would want the rookies drag racing in Time Square, now, would you?" said Allison with a smile._

_Tommy laughed at what she said. "I like this kid already. So then Brian, what can I do for you while you're here in the states? I suppose you have business here other than stopping by to say hi and introduce me to your cute new gearhead little sister?"_

"_Actually, our business here is to help you out." said Brian. "Allison wants to join the S.A.S or maybe Delta Force when she's older, and she knows Recon and disguise are important skills. She's been taking lots of lessons in foreign languages, among other things, and she's even put in a lot of range time thanks to some people I know."_

"_What are you getting at, Brian?" asked Tommy, his expression now serious._

"_I've heard about the _Trinitarios _problem here in the Bronx. Allison wants to test her skills out and infiltrate these sons-of-bitches and help the NYPD take down the Morris Heights set."_

"_You guys did your research." said Tommy. "Do forgive me, however, if I'm reluctant to send in a foreign national into harm's way. If something happens to her, Brian, this shit falls on me, and at that, she's my own cousin!"_

"_Perhaps you'll be less reluctant if you see what she's been learning. Can you get us a ride down to the Police Academy?"_

"_Go easy on these officers, Allison. They're just here to test your skills."_

_Allison was now inside a martial arts studio within the New York Police Academy surrounded by three police officers acting as aggressors in a self-defense scenario. One was equipped with a rubber knife, another with a telescoping baton, and a third with a gas-blowback Airsoft pistol._

"_Well, whenever you're ready, guys." Allison said to the her opponents. No sooner had the words left her mouth than the attackers descended upon her immediately. Allison prioritized her threats, first going after the one with the pistol. Swatting the pistol's muzzle aside, Allison seized hold of the pistol's slide as she delivered a mean backhand into her present opponent's face, the impact causing him to withdraw his hands to the affected area. The pistol now in her left hand, Allison swept out her opponent's feet from under him, dropping him to the floor before she dropped her foot into his solar plexus, the training officer doubling over as the wind was knocked out of him. She aimed the loaded Airsoft pistol at the other two opponents, causing them to back off a little. Deciding against shooting them, she ejected the magazine and field-stripped the weapon in one smooth motion and tossed the slide and frame of the pistol to the side as she rushed them. She quickly disarmed the one with the rubber knife, then seized him from behind as she quickly made a mock slash across his throat and two stabs into his chest. Finally, faced with just someone armed with a telescoping baton, she ducked under an overhand swing, seized the baton from the officer, and quickly struck the back of his knees, bringing him to the floor before delivering a painful blow to the back of his head. And that was that. Three officers down, in the span of thirty seconds. Brian clapped in appreciation while his cousin Tommy stood amazed at the superhuman performance he had just seen._

"_So, you wanna reconsider using her for this op?" asked Brian._

"_Damn, Brian. I was wrong about worrying about her. I think I'd be more worried about those poor bastards in Morris Heights if they ever cross her."_

_Allison helped up the three lightly injured officers and apologized to them while they nodded in acceptance of the apology. As the officers walked away, Allison approached Brian and Tommy._

"_How'd I do?"_

"_That was a performance beyond words, Allison. It'll require some finesse on my part, but I think you're ready for a little infiltration. Makeup can take care of your skin tone. How's your Spanish?"_

"Suficientemente fluida para haber nacido hablarlo._" replied Allison cleverly in a perfect quick-fire Hispanic dialect as opposed to the Castillian dialect of Spain taught in most American high schools._

_Brian smiled, as did Tommy. "In other words, top-notch." said Tommy. "Let's go back to the station, I have to present the captain with this plan."_


	3. Then and Now Part 2

**Tire Tracks and Spent Casings **

**A Gunslinger Girl Fanfic by MP5**

Disclaimer: Gunslinger Girl is the property of Yu Aida. All trademarks featured herein are copyright their respective owners. Allison, Brian, as well as other original characters herein are property of MP5 unless otherwise noted. Kara Pagani and Michele Pagani are the property of the author Kiskaloo.

**Chapter 3: Then and Now Part 2**

_The brisk autumn air swept through the desolate streets of the Morris Heights section in The Bronx. The weather was no deterrent, however, to Benito Rodriguez and his fellow Trinitarios, hanging out on a stoop, talking in the relative comfort and safety of their territory. In Morris Heights, the Trinitarios ruled the roost, and despite the NYPD's pitiful attempts to stop their growth and crimes, they now numbered in the thousands in New York alone. All of them wore lime green somewhere on their person; it was their gang colors, of which they were extremely proud. People in their territory who weren't involved with the gang knew better than to oppose them, since many of the Trinitarios knew who was who, and whether or not these people were a potential threat to the gang. Any informants were either intimidated of silenced entirely. Sometimes, such tasks involved the lives of children._

_Benito idly surveyed the scene before him; a very gray and visually-unappealing street with many houses that had bars over their windows, some completely boarded up. The scene was commonplace for him day in and day out. Suddenly he caught sight of a strikingly attractive brunette Latina woman in low-rise jeans, sweatshirt, and hoisting a small satchel on her back saunter by his and his friends' place on the stoop as she exited the stairs to The El. _

"Mira, una chica bonita."_ said Benito to his pals._

"Ella está fuera de su liga."_ replied one of them._

"No hay peligro en el intento, ¿no?" _ Benito shot back, jumping down from the stoop. He followed the girl until he cut in front of her. "How you doin, girl? Need some company? You lookin' _muy solo_." Benito opened upon his greeting to the young woman._

"_No thanks, _esé." _replied the girl. _"_I don't associate myself with any _cerdos._" she replied._

"_You callin' me a pig, bitch?" Benito shot back, offended and quick to anger as the girl walked past him. "Whatever. You probably a _puta_ anyway."_

"Tu madre es una puta, pendejo."_ the girl shot back, eliciting jeers from the other Trinitarios on the stoop. Benito quickly lost his temper._

"_No bitch talks to me like that!" he said, pulling out a folding knife. "Now I'ma have to cut you before I fuck your pretty little brains out!"_

"_You can try, asshole." she challenged, daring him to come at her. With a lunge, Benito thrust his knife forward, but a simple sidestep caused him to miss entirely. The girl parried and re-routed the knife right into Benito's upper right thigh, and she twisted it once it penetrated the muscle under the skin. Benito yelled out in pain as he crumpled to the sidewalk, clutching his injured leg. His friends hopped off the stoop they were sitting on, and shattering beer bottles that were nearby, prepared to fight this new threat. Not hesitating, the girl quickly lunged towards one of them, catching one off- guard and disarming him. As his buddy went to embed his broken glass weapon in her torso, the girl used her now-unarmed opponent as a shield, allowing the beer bottle to go into his back before shoving him into the street where he lay writhing in agony. The remaining Trinitario was now shaking in fright. Benito and Nico were tough bastards—no one ever messed with them. Yet he had just seen them almost get wasted by one girl. If he had his piece, he could fight—but he left it at home, and this was the worst day to forget to carry._

"_Better run, _esé_." said the girl. "I'll give you five seconds before I come after you. One..."_

_The remaining gang member started sprinting. He could lose this _chica loca_ if he took advantage of that headstart, hell, it could've been a bluff. He ran towards the set's main hangout, where hopefully there would be more of the gang to help him out._

_The girl took the advantage of the delay to yank the knife from Benito's thigh, a scream emanating from the man's throat before she delivered a powerful blow to his head that knocked him unconscious. She saw her prey flee around the corner, and she gave chase, Benito's knife folded in her palm. She began to gain on him roughly three blocks from where Benito and Nico lay injured, perhaps dead. As he got closer to the hideout, the Trinitario being chased called out to his friends._

"¡Ayúdame! Esta loca chica me va a matar!" _the Trinitario called, drawing the attention of the others in the area. Other members of the gang came outside to see what was going on, and the girl quickly threw Benito's knife at her quarry, striking him in the back of his shin. As he crumpled, the other Trinitarios in the area went to descend upon the girl with __whatever they could get their hands on. Knives, baseball bats, rocks, glass bottles, pipes, and eventually, some guns were __all put into play. The girl went after those with guns first, quickly disarming them, even using a nearby opponent as a human shield when a single shot was let off. _

_The street echoed with the sounds of broken bones and wet-meat impacts as the girl went to work on her opponents, her blows raining like a thunder-god. Men much bigger and stronger than her were now keeled over, clutching broken noses, nursing injured groins, or laying unresponsive on the filthy pavement. The only stop to the slaughter was the sound of multiple firearms announcing their presence with metallic clicks, and the girl dropped her current opponent and raised her hands into the air. No one fired, unusual for a gang that just saw many of their comrades take a horrendous beatdown by a girl they could only assume was some kind of monster. One of the Trinitarios holding the girl at gunpoint grabbed her hands and pinned them behind her back._

"_If the boss didn't want to meet you, we'd have killed you, _chica. Vamanos._" ordered the girl's captor, shoving her into the backseat of a gloss black Lexus GS300. The car raced off a few blocks, the girl blindfolded but calm, before she was brought into a warehouse where she was unceremoniously plopped down in a wooden seat, flanked by armed Trinitarios packing shotguns and pistols. An important-looking gangbanger came to remove her blindfold, slowly and delicately, with civility that the others did not show. The girl, looking the gangbanger in the face with a thousand-yard stare, blinked, as if her eyelids were camera shutters. Then, the gangbanger, presumably the set leader, spoke as he sat down across from her._

"_All right then. Who are you, _niña_, and why are you causing so much trouble in _mi barrio_?" he asked._

"_Maria Salazar, _jefe_. And I want to join _Los Trinitarios_." answered the girl._

"_Maria Salazar, huh? I'm Carlos Santiago. Look, we don't get too many recruits from just anywhere. Most of the soldiers with Los Trinitarios are family or friends. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't have you killed or turn you out." said the set leader._

"_Because I need somewhere to belong." said Maria sarcastically. "That's what the shrinks be saying, right?"_

"_Very funny, girl, but it ain't enough. Got a better reason?"_

"_I'm probably the only girl willing to get jumped in if it comes to it. I ain't no _puta_."_

"_You think you _G.I. Jane_ or somethin', _chica?_" asked another gang member near Carlos._

"_What, scared I gonna kick you ass? I'll do it, too. Ask your boys a couple blocks away. I ain't no bitch, _esé_. I'm plenty bad enough to waste these two next to me if it means getting in."_

"_You know, getting sexed in would be a lot easier, Maria." said Carlos. "But since you insist, we'll see if you can roll with the men. How well you drive?"_

"_Like fuckin' Jeff Gordon, _jefe_. About the only thing I learned from my papa before he became a fucking boozehound."_

"_Spare the story, at least till you in the gang for real. You rolling on a drive-by tonight against some DDP fools hanging out near our turf. You down for this, girl?"_

"_You think I would've beat up your boys if I weren't?"_

"_Good attitude. Now get her out of here. Come back to where we let you off at 5:00. Don't be late."_

_Maria was once again blindfolded and shoved into the backseat of the Lexus that brought her in. She was dropped off where she had been picked up, only the area was now empty, a few bloodstains the only sign of an altercation. As the Lexus peeled away, Maria turned to walk back home._

_Three blocks down, two blocks west, and another two blocks south, Maria entered a dilapidated apartment building and shut the door behind her. Climbing up two floors, she reached for her key to her apartment, unlocked her abode, and stepped inside. She came face-to-face with a brown-haired, green-eyed Caucasian man._

"Bienvenido a casa, _Allison." he greeted with a small smile._

"Gracias_, Brian." replied 'Maria', now reverting to her normal accent as Allison McDonnell. The advice and lessons of the Alessandro/Petra team back home proved invaluable now as Allison tried to infiltrate the Trinitarios. Removing her wig of springy, curled black hair wasn't much of an option at the moment, nor was removing her makeup that turned her normally Caucasian white skin into Latino mocha brown. In a few hours, she would be busy playing wheelman for a gang shooting, and nothing could afford to be out of place at the moment. Brian had set about allowing some small comfort for Allison, frying up some SPAM to a lightly crispy consistency and boiling some white rice for lunch/early dinner. Simple, probably quite salty and not the best food in the world, but Allison wasn't a picky eater. Brian had subjected her to out-of-__norm survival training, and if it came to roasting insects or small rodents over a fire or eating live insects, Allison would do __so with minimal hesitation. Showing this ability to her roommates elicited fascination, in a morbid "oh-dear-god-why-would-you-ever-eat-that-I-think-I'm-gonna-be-sick-*hurl*" sort of manner. From haute cuisine to peasant subsistence, Allison would eat it, regardless._

_Now, as Brian placed the meaty and crisp slices of SPAM atop bowls full of steaming rice, Allison grabbed a plastic fork and dug into her own bowl._

"_So what have you found out so far?" asked Brian, pushing rice onto his fork._

"_Nothing truly new." replied Allison, tearing into a piece of SPAM. "They're going to have me drive for a hit on their rivals, DDP."_

"_Dominicans Don't Play, huh?" remarked Brian. "Strange. Aren't there a lot of Dominicans within the Trinitarios themselves?"_

"_That's what I thought, too." noted Allison. "I guess it's not so much a matter of racial makeup as it is turf."_

"_Isn't that always the case with gang warfare?"_

"_Well, hopefully they'll be pleased with my performance. Depends what car they give me, though."_

"_Don't expect anything fancy." warned Brian. "But remember the saying--'Drive like you stole it'--because they probably did."_

_About an hour later, as the sun began to set around 4:45, Allison prepared to leave for the meeting spot. As she was about to walk out the door, Brian held her up a little._

"_Allison."_

"_Yeah?"_

_Brian walked up to her and hugged her warmly. Despite the makeup that darkened her skin tone, Allison's blush came through._

"_Be careful out there, all right?"_

"_I will."_

_As soon as Allison turned and walked out the door, shutting the door behind her, she transformed into Maria Salazar once again._

_****_

"_Hm. Not a bad choice, _niños._" commented Maria as she looked at tonight's chariot of death. It was a black 1995 Nissan Maxima, equipped with 17-inch wheels, a new exhaust, and little else. Vinyl patterns adorned the sides of the car in an effort to personalize it. Maria went to check the tires, a pleasantry that the other Trinitarios gathered there grew impatient with._

"_Hey, hurry up, Maria! What the hell are you doin'?" snapped one of the shooters._

"_Checking the tires, _idiota_. You want this to go down with us in one piece, you make damn sure the tires are good. We suffer a blowout while trying to run, the cops'll catch us, or we go home in coffee cans." Maria shot back._

"_Whatever. Get it done, and quickly."_

_Maria quickly checked the tires with a pressure gauge she had for the occasion. Satisfied, she eased herself into the driver's seat and set up her position. The Trinitario next to her placed a Ruger P89DC 9mm pistol in her lap, the serial number filed off._

"_You might be new to this thing, but everybody has to be strapped when we do a drive-by." said the gang member. "This one's on the house."_

_Maria pulled open her satchel and extracted a Kimber Custom TLE/RL II from it, handing back the Ruger._

"_Keep your nine. I only roll with the four-five. At least when I try and smoke someone, they'll stay down."_

"_Where'd you get a four-five, anyway?" asked one of the shooters in the back of the Maxima._

"Mi Tío_. He taught me how to shoot. It was a present from him, and he told me never to tell _mi padre_. He probably knew that he was laying hands on me." replied Maria._

"_Smart uncle. Too bad he didn't see you getting into this."_

"_Enough talk. Let's go put these fools in the dirt."_

_Maria put the automatic gearbox into 'drive' and pulled away from the area, the shooter riding shotgun next to her pointing out which way to go. 15 minutes later, they had stopped just up the street from their objective._

"_There they are." said Maria's guide, indicating the red and blue-clad DDP members up ahead._

"_How we gonna do this?" asked Maria._

"_Drive up, stop in front of them, dump on those _vatos_ and then drive like hell. Easy enough, right? No talk, just cut loose on those fuckers."_

_Maria flicked the safety off on her Kimber and checked to make sure it was loaded. Placing the Maxima into gear, she floored it towards the target as the other shooters in the car got their windows down. She braked hard in front of the porch where the DDP members stood, thrust the muzzle of her Kimber out the window and started popping off rounds a split second before her 'comrades', armed with automatic weapons and a shotgun, opened fire as well. In the few seconds that elapsed since the first cartridge casings flew out the ejection ports of their weapons, the occupants of the Maxima had expended nearly fifty or so rounds gunning down the cluster of Dominicans Don't Play members. Maria brought her pistol back past the threshold of her window and sped off. As she glanced in the rearview mirror, she saw a wailing mother carrying her stricken child out of the house they had just opened up upon. She knew who she hit, because she aimed-- and her fellow riders did not. She was under orders to remain in cover, and even do as necessary in order to do so, but she was repulsed by the reckless disregard for the lives of innocents and was saddened at the results of their recent action. She was disgusted at herself most of all for being an accomplice to a crime that had visited violence, however indirect, against an innocent child._

_The group arrived at a Trinitarios hideout and quickly stashed the Maxima under wraps. As they walked away from the car, the three other shooters were euphoric over the destruction of their enemies. Only Maria wasn't saying anything. Alano, who had ridden in the front passenger's seat, tried to get her attention._

"_Yo Maria, you did good back there, girl. You def'nitly got skill to hang with the guys on a drive-by. I never saw anyone pop so many DDP fools so fast!"_

"_Easy for you to say." said Maria coldly. "You don't care if you hit them or not."_

"_Man, what shit you talking about now?"_

"_I saw a kid being carried outside in his mom's arms as we drove away. It was from the house that we hit."_

"_So?"_

"_So, that means one of your bullets hit him. Do you _hijos de puta_ understand yet?! You guys fucking shot a kid!"_

"_Not our problem, girl. We didn't see it happen, we ain't losin' sleep over it."_

"_And that's why it happened in the first place. You _idiotas_ didn't bother to aim. At least when I fucking opened up, I made sure I hit what I meant to hit and _only_ what I meant to hit! This is why people hate gangbangers! It's all because morons like you just spray and pray, with no thought of the consequences! It's why the police are so damn insistent on finding the smallest reason for arresting us! They'd leave us alone if we were just killing other gangs, but they come after us because stupid dipshits who can't aim end up harming someone's mom, dad, grandma, grandpa, brother, sister, son, or daughter!"_

"_You act like we need to have a conscience, Maria." said Alano. "Newsflash: we look out for number one, ok?"_

_Alano walked away nonchalantly, as did the passenger who brought a shotgun. The last participant in the drive-by, a stocky Dominican named Pepito, went up to Maria. Unlike the other two, he understood her feelings._

"_I know where you coming from, Maria." said Pepito. "I was like you when I joined the Trinitarios. I don't like seeing kids get popped, but Alano is right. The streets is rough, girl. If you a 'banger, you don't have the luxury of thinking about others outside of the gang. Having a conscience is, how they say, problematic. Now you have an advantage in that you are really good at shooting. But unless you're gonna make time to teach the homies how to shoot like educated white folk do, they still gonna spray and pray, and they still gonna hurt other folks who just happen to be in the wrong place at the worst possible time. Better not to think about it and just keep your head on your shoulders."_

_----------_

_And over the following days, Maria heeded this advice as she joined the Trinitarios in their usual crimes-- she held her Kimber to the head of a frail old man who had seen other members of the gang mugging someone, she had severely injured a convenience store clerk as her fellow Trinitarios emptied out the cash register, and personally blew away two members of MS-13 that were unlucky enough to be alone on Trinitarios turf._

_Trying to keep up this charade, however, was taking its toll on Allison. When she came back to the safehouse, she was drained, depressed, and in a terrible mood, no longer the sunny and talkative girl she was when she began this mission._

"_I just want this to be over, Brian." said Allison one evening over a dinner of Rice-a-Roni. "I'm tired of hurting innocent people so that I can get into the gang. It doesn't feel right just helping these bastards get away with murder, robbery, and assault."_

"_You need to hang in there, Allison. You're getting closer to finding out where the drug operations are occurring."_

"_I don't know how much longer I can take of this. I want to break cover already and start beating the crap out of these guys—kill them, even—but if I do that, then I screw up the case Cousin Tommy worked so hard on."_

"_Did any of the Trinitarios say when you were going to be 'jumped in'?" asked Brian, thinking carefully._

"_Tomorrow night, Carlos said. Apparently, they think I'm ready."_

"_There you go, Allison. Problem solved."_

"_What do you mean?"_

"_In a 'jumping in' ceremony, the initiate has to survive being beaten up by senior members of the gang for up to a minute, sometimes less. The initiate is allowed to fight back, but unless they know how to fight, they generally just curl up and protect themselves. You get my drift here? This is your chance to put on some hurt, release that pent-up frustration."_

_Allison understood what Brian had said and smiled a little. However, Brian quickly put a damper on her enthusiasm._

"_But! You must avoid killing them. You can injure them to within an inch of their lives, but you must not set out to actually kill any of them. That will most certainly blow your cover, and since we're working with the police, that'll be harder to explain away. We have no access to cleanup teams here; we're on our own."_

"_Fine. I'll hold back a little bit."_

"_You need to hold back more than just a little bit, Allison. Your cybernetic implants make it possible to produce more force with less effort."_

"_I'll keep that in mind."_

_-------------_

_And so, the next evening, Maria was in the street in front of the Trinitarios' main 'base of operations' surrounded by at least fifteen hardcore members of the gang. Some of them carried blunt objects, others wore brass knuckles, still others brought their hands and feet._

_The descent of red mist over Maria began with a single blow of a baseball bat to her stomach. The wind being knocked out of her was all it took for a switch inside her head to flip and unleash a fighting fury often found in caged and cornered animals. As other gang members moved in to get their licks in, Maria responded by taking her first assailant's weapon and savagely shattering one of his ribs, followed by a bone-breaking blow to the kneecaps. She then spun around to break the baseball bat over another attacker's head, at which point she simply continued using her fists and feet to deliver massive pain and suffering on those that dared to attack her. Noses, arms, fingers, legs, wrists, and ribcages all fell victim to the machine of furious destruction Maria had become. She was supposed to survive sixty seconds against an onslaught of brute force; her opponents were now the ones who struggled to survive _thirty_ against _her_. Carlos let out a low whistle and clapped slowly as Maria stood amidst the fallen, her breathing quickened and predatory._

"_Give me a thousand soldiers like you, and I could take over this entire state." said Carlos as he approached the female initiate._

"_What's the matter, you too chicken to go after the entire east coast?" taunted Maria. Despite her fury, she kept her rapier wit, which, Carlos grudgingly admitted to himself, was amusing._

"La ambición puede ser problemático. _Do you know the story of Julius Caesar?"_

"_'Beware the Ides of March' and all that? Sure I did. It's about the only book I ever paid attention to." _

"_Then you know that his ambition caused his inner circle to panic. And so they killed him. I don't want to make that mistake. One step at a time, and I will achieve that kind of power in due course."_

"_I never figured you for an intellectual, Carlos." commented Maria._

"_Not all gangbangers have to be dumb street punks who don't know any better. That said, I'm self-educated." replied Carlos. "So I assume you want to know if you're in the gang or not?"_

_Maria nodded silently, awaiting the answer._

"_Well, with that kind of ass-kicking power, you'd be of more use inside the gang than out of it. So welcome, Maria. You are the sole sister in our brotherhood, that which stands for _Dios, Patria, y Libertad_."_

_Carlos handed Maria a green bandanna that she dutifully wore around her neck._

"_I'm having you put in work starting tomorrow. Meet me and the boys here around this time tomorrow. Bring your piece."_

"_No problem." said Maria. "I'm almost always carrying. I just had the restraint not to use it when they tried to jump me in."_

"_You would've tried to take it back from me?" said Carlos, handing Maria back her Kimber. "Even by force? You know, that would not reflect well on you."_

"_And I did not, because I respect you as the leader of the Morris Heights set. However, let us not focus on the 'What if', but the 'what now'."_

"_You will see the 'what now' tomorrow. In the meantime, go home and rest."_

_-----------------_

"Madre de Dios!_" exclaimed Maria, seeing the interior of a warehouse Carlos and two of his men had taken her to. The next day had arrived, and the three were now entering the Trinitarios' own crystal meth production facility. This was of a 'superlab' design, a facility capable of producing 90 pounds of the substance in 2-3 days. The drug was being made out of commonplace items that were on their own legal and safe to use but processed the way they were, became part of a potentially lethal substance: lithium, acetone, ammonia, battery acid, drain cleaner, camp stove fuel, starting fluid, freon, rubbing alcohol, and cold medicine, just to name a few. For safety reasons, everyone was at least wearing painter's masks to avoid breathing in the foul stench of the fumes from production of the crystal meth._

"_Maria, this right here is our bread and butter. In two days, we can pretty much flood the streets with crystal, and it earns us more money than sticking up a 7-11." said Carlos. "I want you to be in charge of protecting it."_

"_Already?!" asked Maria, genuinely surprised. _

"_And why not?" responded Carlos. "I've seen your fighting ability. I was told how well you did when you went on that drive-by. There is no one I see who is more fit and aggressive enough for the job than you. You will of course, be well-compensated for your work."_

"_I am...honored, to accept this job." said Maria, bowing in deference to Carlos._

"_You won't have to worry about the fumes as much, Maria." said Carlos. "You'll be outside in the fresh air watching for cops. Get some time in today; we're moving a big shipment out tomorrow."_

"_All it got is my .45. Is that enough?"_

"_Grab an AK or something from our gun closet." said Carlos. "Sometimes, it's not just cops that come round looking for trouble."_

"_Point taken."_

_Maria followed Carlos to the gun closet, where a plethora of illegal firearms composed primarily of AK-47's, MAC-11's, and Glock pistols filled the room. She quickly picked out an AK and fiddled about with it._

"_I think I know how this works." she said, working the action and the fire selector. "How'd you get this thing full-auto?"_

"_We have ways." replied Carlos. "Get on the clock, then, Maria. Gotta put in work to earn your pay."_

_Maria quickly hustled out of the toxic-smelling meth lab with her AK in hand. Greedily, she breathed in what fresh air there was as she took in her surroundings. Checking quickly to make sure no other Trinitarios were around, she pulled out her cellphone and tapped out a text message to a certain phone number._

_**To: 212-555-4XXX**_

_**Subject: I'm in. Intel meeting tonight.**_

_-------------_

"_So what have you got for us, Allison?" asked Tommy back at the safehouse. He, Brian, and Allison were now discussing the takedown of the meth lab that had eluded the 47th precinct for so long._

"_Well, those reports of a lab are confirmed." replied Allison, sketching out the general layout of the location she had visited. "It's quite a large warehouse that holds a superlab setup inside capable of producing 90 pounds of product in 3 days. Santiago told me this himself, and he looked damn proud of the fact. Now then, most of the warehouse is dedicated to lab space. Fumes in there are nasty and toxic, and lots of chemicals around, as I'm sure your guys know. If you can draw them outside the warehouse, any chances of explosive accidents should drop significantly. But if you _have _to storm the place, watch out and have your men check their fire. A single spark, and the whole place could go up."_

"_I'll pass that on to the tactical teams." said Tommy. "What about armaments? These guys packing? They have a cache, what?"_

"_Santiago led me to a storeroom full of assorted weapons. Lots of things in full-auto, and very nasty buggers to boot. AK-47's, MAC-11's, and Glocks make up most of what's in there."_

"_Anything else we should know?" asked Tommy._

"_Nothing more,Tommy." replied Allison._

"_Do you have that alibi for her?" asked Brian._

"_Yes, I do. It's already set up." affirmed Tommy. "Now, could I talk to you alone for a little while?"_

_Brian quickly motioned to Allison, and she set off to the small living room, eating dinner as she watched the local NBC affiliate's primetime lineup. Out in the hallway, Tommy confronted Brian with a serious expression._

"_Is there something I should know about my new cousin?" asked Tommy. "Not that I don't appreciate the help, Brian, but she's way too skilled for a normal teenage girl. I didn't know what to do when I walked in here and she was field-stripping that Kimber she was carrying. I don't know about you, but here in New York, seeing any kid taking apart and putting back together a handgun like a pro sure as hell raises red flags. What's going on here, Brian?"_

"_I can't tell you that, Tommy." replied Brian, simply. He was expecting this, but not this soon._

"_Why not? And don't give me any bullshit." said Tommy._

"_Because I work for a part of the Italian government that does not take info leaks well. They want to operate in the black, and I'm going to help keep it that way. I'm sorry that I can't explain anything right now."_

"_What does that have to do with Allison?" asked Tommy._

"_Everything, including how I came to adopt her. I can't say any more than that."_

_Tommy was going to argue, but then relented. "I see. But dammit, Brian, we may not be close, but we're family. Can I ask you sometime again to tell me everything?"_

"_I doubt it, Tommy. Even if it's family I talk to, it would become a liability. The agency I work for doesn't like info getting out about them and their operations."_

"_What the hell kind of Agency do you work for?" _

"_Italian Intelligence. Can't be more specific."_

"_Playing this awfully close to the chest, aren't you?" commented Tommy. "What about Allison?"_

"_What about her?"_

"_you showed me that she can take care of herself, but even so, she'll be the only girl in a meth lab full of scumbag gangbangers. I'm worried for her safety. They have way more guns than she does, and they might hold her hostage."_

"_Tommy, a second ago, you were more concerned about her having that gun. If she can clean it like a pro, how do you think she can shoot?"_

"_Which brings me to only more questions. I want to know what else you're hiding from me."_

"_You know I can't tell you that, Tommy" said Brian. "I'm sorry I lied to you. The part about Allison being my adopted sister, that's true. I wouldn't yank your chain with some random kid off the street. But other than that, I can't tell you the entire truth because it might mean compromising the agency I work for. So this means I will have to keep lying to you, or you stop prying, at least for now. I need you to trust both me and Allison, even though it seems like we won't do the same in return."_

"_And therein lies the conundrum, but I'll have to live with it. I'm not doing this op with much attention to the normal playbook, either. Realistically, I could get fired, maybe even go to jail for sending Allison in, but we would never be able to get this far without her."_

"_Looks like we both have our skeletons in the closet, eh?"_

"_Specialty of the McDonnell Cousins."_

_------------------_

_At the lab the next day, Maria stood guard outside at the loading dock at the warehouse, her thumb playing with the firing selector on the AK she had in her hands. Whether out of nervousness or boredom, she would be here to help ensure that loading of the product to be distributed went smoothly, with no interruptions, whether from police or gangs. Her attention was drawn by the distinct sound of several van engines coming closer, intermingled with the sound of some motorbikes. Maria flicked the fire selector to fully automatic as the vans backed in, should any surprises occur. She nodded to her two nearby associates, Enrique and Ricardo, and they stood watch while she strode inside the lab to find Carlos. She found him near the 'production floor' and quickly made contact._

"Jefe_, the movers are here. Do we start loading?"_

"_Set them to it, Maria. Make sure you help them."_

_Maria dashed back out to the loading dock and nodded again to Enrique and Ricardo. They put their weapons away to help start loading as other Trinitarios started lmoving carts of crystal meth from the lab to the loading dock. As they began loading, Maria brushed away a lock of hair that had fallen in front of her eyes, a calculated, pre-ordained gesture whose true meaning was understood by Tommy McDonnell, manning a pair of binoculars 700 feet from the scene._

"_All units, mobilize in thirty seconds."_

_A chatter of mic keyings acknowledged the message. As hidden police officers and members of NYPD SWAT got ready to spring their trap, more crystal meth was loaded aboard the vans, beginning to lower with the increasing weight of the products. Maria pulled out a red hair tie and used it to keep her curly locks out of her face as she stooped down to load bags of the meth. They were almost done loading when an NYPD helicopter came thundering in from the northwest, and the area exploded in police sirens as gang members began to react. Loudspeakers on the helicopter belted out an order to exit the warehouse in surrender, broadcasting the message in both English and Spanish. As was the case, however, the situation quickly became a gunfight. What was not expected was what would happen as Maria turned her AK-47 on the Trinitarios nearby. With the efficiency of a machine, she mowed them down with aimed bursts to the head, quickly emptying her weapon and withdrawing inside the warehouse as any survivors were quickly picked up by incoming NYPD._

_As the scene inside the warehouse devolved into chaos, Maria drew her Kimber and hastily arranged evacuation for Carlos. She then ascended the stairs to his office in the warehouse, only to be met by the muzzle of Santiago's .44 Magnum Desert Eagle. And it was aimed at her._

"_I am disappointed in you, Maria." said Carlos, not taking his eyes off her. "I am amazed that you had me fooled for so long. You got me to trust you honestly. A credit to your skills then, Maria—if that is even your real name."_

"_My real name is none of your business. What is, is offering you two ways out of this mess—a body bag, or handcuffs. There is no third option."_

"_Then I will make one. Goodbye, Maria, you traitorous whore."_

_Before Maria could bring up her Kimber, three consecutive rounds of .44 Magnum lodged themselves in her belly, and she crumpled limply with their impact, laying motionless on the floor. About to administer a fourth shot to her head just to be sure, Carlos was interrupted by one of his bodyguards, ready to usher him out for his own safety. One of the bodyguards saw Maria's body on the floor._

"Jefe_, what happened to Maria?!"_

"_She was a fucking badge. She played us like goddamned pianos all this time! We have to go!"_

_Carlos and his bodyguard were quickly out of the room. Maria's body lay lifeless a few seconds more, then she stirred with a groan, her left hand reached up to pull off the wig of black hair, revealing brunette beneath. Gone was the latina's normal speech, replaced by Allison's Essex accent._

"_Three shots... Yeah, I'm killing that wanker now."_

_Allison got to her feet and saw Carlos and his guards making their way towards his Lexus, prompting Allison to go through the window after them. In a shower of glass and debris, she landed on the sheet metal awning and leaped from there onto the roof of the Lexus. Before she could open fire, the sudden acceleration rolled her off the vehicle. Brian and Tommy came running to her aid, but she made it clear she was all right and was focused on chasing Santiago._

"_Are there any cruisers available?" aksed Allison._

"_We'll take mine." said Tommy, running to his unmarked Crown Victoria, fishing out an AR-15 from the trunk as Allison slid into the driver's seat._

"_You have your license?"_

"_In Italy, yes. Now buckle up and hang on."_

_No sooner had the two adults clicked their seatbelts in than when Allison shifted the gear lever into drive and floored the gas pedal as the large sedan leapt out of its parking space, quickly latching onto the heels of Santiago's escaping Lexus. As their chase spilled out onto University Avenue, bullets were soon being traded between the two cars. Their speeds were quickly going upwards of 70mph on city streets, and had it not been for the siren on the Crown Vic, Allison would have a much harder time negotiating traffic as she hounded the Lexus. Expertly following it in its slipstream, she was soon bumper-to-bumper, and aiming her Kimber out the window, shot out the left-rear tire and nudged the same corner of the Lexus, performing a PIT maneuver. As the Lexus slewed around, and knowing Carlos was in the center rear seat flanked by his bodyguards, Allison opened fire with her Kimber, placing 4 well-placed .45ACP slugs through the illegally-tinted windshield and windows of the Lexus. Each shot found every head except for Santiago's, and before the car even stopped, his men were all dead around him. Allison pulled in the Crown Victoria close as Tommy leapt out, AR-15 trained on the immobilized Lexus. Allison and Brian followed, their own weapons drawn as they surrounded the vehicle. Allison rushed to the left-rear passenger door where Tommy was positioned, and yanked the door clean off its hinges, revealing a dazed Carlos Santiago inside. Allison snatched his unsecured form out of the car and onto the pavement as other police units arrived on the scene for containment, and made way for the ambulance that was arriving on-scene. Allison finally found time to relax as she sat on the hood of Tommy's Crown Victoria, checking her weapon before safing and holstering it. She then peeled off her sweat-soaked body armor, and felt an ache in her stomach area, no doubt a lingering result of the .44 magnum rounds she took at close range._

"_You all right, Allison?" asked Brian, bringing her a Coke from a nearby vending machine._

"_Kinda aches a little, but I should be okay. How'd I do?"_

"_You did excellent, Allison. You just helped shut down an entire set of a a very large gang. No small feat for an 17-year-old from Rome."_

"_You have to remember, too, that I'm no ordinary 17-year-old." quipped Allison, flexing a bicep, eliciting a smile from Brian. "So where do we go from here? My field trial is over, isn't it?"_

"_That it is. Look, Section 2 thinks we have a couple more days before we'll be done, so I think we should spend some family time together with cousin Tommy."_

"_What about the CSI unit here? I won't have to testify in court, won't I?"_

"_Not if your cousin has things well in hand. I think these CSI blokes are his mates in 47th Precinct. They have an alibi for you already."_

"_That's good. Because I think I would like to see more of New York while we're here."_

* * *

And so, the three McDonnells found time to tour New York City, visiting all the major sights, like the Statue of Liberty, the Metropolitan Museum, Central Park, Times Square, and so on. Allison and Brian capped off their visit when Tommy brought them to Giants Stadium to see the Halloween game against the Washington Redskins, an introduction to American football that made Allison a new fan of the sport.

As Brian finished up the paperwork, he glanced again to the test track. Allison and Kara were still creating tire smoke with the AE86 and the Gallardo. With a smile, he picked up the keys to his RS6 and went out the door.

Minutes later, Brian added the smell of scorched Pirellis to the already building haze as he followed Allison and Kara in their sideways shenanigans.


	4. The Usual Suspects

**Tire Tracks and Spent Casings **

**A Gunslinger Girl Fanfic by MP5**

Disclaimer: Gunslinger Girl is the property of Yu Aida. All trademarks featured herein are copyright their respective owners. Allison, Brian, as well as other original characters herein are property of MP5 unless otherwise noted. Kara Pagani and Michele Pagani are the property of the author Kiskaloo. Jay Valentine is the property of Jacen Starslayer. Elio and Marisa Alboreto are the property of Professor Voodoo. Adeline Melita is the property of Symbiotic. Laine Stanaway is the property of Rusty-Spring on Cyborg Central's Gunslinger Girl forums.

**Chapter 4: The Usual Suspects**

The early morning breeze blew in through the open window of Allison's dorm room as the brunette stirred under the covers. She arose with a yawn, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes lightly. Today, the light snore of her roommate was notably absent, indicating that Petrushka probably spent the night with Alessandro...again. Luckily, this meant not disturbing anyone in her immediate vicinity as she gathered her clothes to go shower, carefully walking down the hall to the common bathroom as others slept.

After her shower, Allison went back to her room to continue dressing, and arranged her drying hair into a semi-bun/ponytail with the use of a hair claw clip. Her Casio G-shock watch was secured onto her wrist, and she had put on her favorite Lancia-Martini v-neck t-shirt, matched with 3/4 length denim jeans and Puma cross-trainers. Once dressed, she grabbed her 1985 Ferrari Red Gibson Les Paul Custom and its accompanying amplifier as she exited her dorm room once again and made her way to the compound roof.

Ascending the stairs and exiting into the outside world through the rooftop access, she was greeted by the sight of the rising sun peeking up over the horizon. It was going to be another beautiful day in Italy, but she felt she needed to play something to truly kick things off properly. Plugging her amplifier and connecting her guitar, she turned the volume up to "11" and pointed the amplifier northwards, absentmindedly playing with the fantasy that Padania's movement could be halted by the power of rock, if not bullets. Positioning her medium-thickness guitar pick betwixt thumb and forefinger, she raised her arm high in the air before bringing it past the six strings.

The morning calm was pierced by the full volume of "Scotland the Brave" and its boisterous, lively notes made rougher by the overdrive function of the amplifier. Birds were scared out of their trees, the odd car alarm or two went off, and inside the girls' dorm, Kara was startled out of her bed and onto the floor while her roommate Gattonero bolted out of bed and knocked her head into the ceiling, eliciting a string of expletives from the short-haired young woman. Grumpily, Kara was coming to terms with what happened. Only Allison could possibly be up on the roof playing the unofficial Scottish National Anthem this early in the morning.

"Why can't she let the rest of us sleep?" complained Kara, yelling with frustration into her pillow.

"Don't ask me." said Gattonero, rubbing her head. "She said she's aiming that amp north towards the Padanians."

"Well, she's hitting us with some very unpleasant friendly fire." groused Kara.

As Allison continued to play, she was made aware of a buzzing sound coming in from behind her shortly before a Radio-controlled scale model Supermarine Spitfire zoomed past above her head. She watched it waggle its wings as it flew away from her, and she turned to face the direction of the boys' dorm where she saw a young boy standing on the rooftop with a radio transmitter in hand. Allison waved to the young pilot, a boy by the name of Scott, whose origins, coincidentally, were in Scotland. Allison continued to play for several minutes more, and soon, Scott joined in across the compound with a set of bagpipes that his handler, Chelsea, had purchased for him. The two performed the song in unison before retreating back inside the compound buildings.

With Allison and Scott's musical escapade over, the Social Welfare Agency compound was now getting well into gear as more of the cyborgs and staff milled about, setting off to do what needed to be done today. For Allison, this meant no missions, so it was off to literature class, taught by Mr. Hilshire. They were finishing up her least-favorite book thus far, which was _Madame Bovary _by Gustave Flaubert. Literature class was often a bore for Allison, and the only real bright spot about it is that it was the first thing that had to be done with in the morning, making way for progressively better (read: more fun) classes throughout the rest of the day.

Now, as she dreaded stepping foot in the classroom for the next god-awful hour, her reluctance was tempered by the paper sign on the door. Hilshire and Triela were on a mission callout, and today there would be a substitute in the form of Alessandro. Allison's face was split by a wide grin; Every time Petrushka's handler was the substitute, the class was turned into a study hall, meaning no chewing-out from Mr. Hilshire, and that she could finish whatever godforsaken assignment that had been assigned to her class. She walked in and saw that a number of her fellow cyborgs were already in their seats, chatting amicably. She took up her spot between Kara and Jay Valentine, a male cyborg brought into Section 2 by Priscilla through an absurd series of events. As Allison plopped into her seat, Kara yawned sleepily while Jay tinkered away with a circuit board that he had laid in front of him.

"'Morning, guys!" the brunette greeted.

"Oh! H-hey, Allison." greeted Jay with a startled expression shortly before returning to his work.

"_Ohayo_, Allison." greeted Kara, unsuccessfully stifling another yawn. "Could you be less frequent with the rock n' roll wake-ups? Ilaria smacked her head into the ceiling, and I fell out of bed as soon as you started playing. I think if you want your psyop to be more effective, you should assist on a publicized siege rather than hope your notes reach the Padania in the north. Some of us need our sleep, and well, you're doing a great job wearing us down."

"Whoops." replied Allison, scratching the back of her head. "Sorry, Kara. I meant no harm."

"It's fine, I'll just catch a few more winks while in class."

"Would you like some tea instead? I got this from the cafeteria." said Allison, passing her friend an insulated and covered cup of tea. "Try it. It's lemon ginger today."

Kara let the aroma waft to her nose, eliciting a twitch of the corner of her lips. "Smells nice."

"It tastes pretty good, too. Have a sip."

Kara put her mouth to the small opening in the cover and took a light pull from the cup, letting the flavor dance on her taste buds. She winced a little at the temperature, but as it cooled, she could taste its citrus-like tang.

"You're right, that is pretty good."

Allison smiled as Petrushka and Alessandro came into the room. The redhead cyborg gave Sandro a quick peck on the cheek before dashing off to her seat in the classroom as Alessandro took the dry erase marker and wrote "Self Study" on the whiteboard in front of the classroom before taking a seat behind the teacher's desk and working away on his mission reports. In her own seat, Allison cracked open her notebook and her paperback copy of _Madame Bovary_ and steeled herself for the task of finishing what was left of the dreadful text.

* * *

"Well, that was a disappointing end." Allison quipped as she finished her notes and the book a few minutes later. The sheer anticlimax that comprised the end of the overly-detailed work bored her to tears, but now free of that particular torture, she moved over to her other notebook full of design ideas for project cars. Her twincharged AE86 Toyota Corolla GT-S, christened "Megumi," was one of the projects that she had initially sketched out in this book, as was her turbocharged Mazdaspeed MX-5, "Shirley." Her Lancia Delta, however, was not in the book because it was a predecessor and she could not think of a name for it, as it was a gift from Brian, and it was not a complete project; something was always being done to it to make it stronger, faster, and more agile. This also reminded her that she had to think of a new name for the Lamborghini Gallardo she had recently acquired. Then, she decided that until she had indeed tuned the Gallardo to her liking, she would not come up with a name for it Then she shook her head. Why even bother tuning one? 513 horsepower was probably enough. In one of her regular meetings with Michele when Kara was with her at the Section 2 test track, she had concurred with the more experienced man and former Scuderia Ferrari engineer that generally, exotic car manufacturers knew what they were doing with their creations, and unless it was going to be a full-time race car, vehicles like the Lamborghini Murciélago and Gallardo were typically not designed to be fiddled about with by tuners because the engine and the other components of the vehicle were already at the height of their technological advancement and brought into balance. Tuning even one component can easily change the dynamics of a vehicle, and Allison was already aware of this fact.

However, the possibility of a super-tuned Lamborghini Gallardo was not lost on her. In a fit of genius and/or insanity, she read, an American by the name of Jason Heffner had given a Lamborghini Gallardo a twin-turbocharger setup that propelled the already well-balanced vehicle close to 1000 horsepower, if not more. A considerable ambition, but it was not necessarily something she wanted to try until she had experienced a normal Lamborghini Gallardo in earnest.

Therefore, Allison turned her attention to another page in her notebook. This particular concept entailed a modified 1969 Fiat 124 Spyder equipped with a fuel-injected 4-cylinder engine that would give the car triple-digit horsepower enabling it to cruise at highway speeds but also retain its ability to handle the winding roads throughout Italy. Her current trouble was deciding what kind of engine to use. Something from Alfa Romeo? Maybe a newer Fiat engine? Perhaps a 4A-GEU powerplant from a Toyota Corolla? Or maybe even Honda's eponymous VTEC? As she jotted down the possibilities, she presented them to Kara, whose opinion she trusted as a fellow driver.

"Hey Kara, what do you think of this idea?" asked Allison, sliding her notebook under her friend's nose. Sitting up, Kara looked at the various notes and sketches of the concept that Allison had come up with.

"Interesting. The formula is very quintessential British sports car: lightweight body, open top, decent engine. It looks like you're trying to make an MX-5, but stripped away of all the safety features and just making it a pure road machine. I like the idea. The engines, though, are a different story altogether. I can see the current crop of Fiat and Alfa engines making it into this, maybe even an Alfa 147 block breathed on by Autodelta. It's these last two I have to put under a little more scrutiny. A Corolla engine—fine, it's at least 150bhp, which is respectable, and I can see the reliability factor working itself into this, and if nothing else, it's taking a good engine from the most boring car in the world and making it motivate something fun. But this last one, I have to raise an objection to. A _Honda VTEC_ engine in a Fiat? That's just utter blasphemy, and I find my sensibilities offended by the mere suggestion of such an unholy matrimony."

Allison was taken aback. "What? Why not? Parts are easy to get, it's got hell-and-back reliability, it's economic yet high-performance, and it's got a nice amount of power-"

"-And it's the darling of chavs in tarted-up Civics with fart can noisemaker exhausts everywhere. Knowing that, Allison, don't you feel any revulsion at the sheer vulgarity of such an engine being used to power a car that's... well frankly, more refined?" argued Kara.

"Well Kara, you have to know that I'm placing function over form here. I've heard too often from other people that Fiat is just an acronym for 'Fix It Again, Tony.' That said, the VTEC powerplant is reliable. Not a single system has had a serious breakdown in the years since the first VTEC was churned out of the factories in Japan. In fact, I daresay it's exactly _why_ it's the darling of Civic-driving rice boys the world over."

"I'm still not convinced." said Kara. "The only VTEC I can truly appreciate is maybe the one found in the Honda NSX."

"Now that's not fair, Kara." replied Allison. "That's a V6, and my design can only fit an I4. Look, if I build it, will you change your mind once you've driven it?"

"Maybe." replied Kara. "Until then, I stand by my opinion that with the exception of the NSX, the VTEC powerplant is a vulgar piece of machinery that doesn't belong anywhere near anything designed to be high-performance."

Allison sighed to herself and flipped to another page. This time, this was a conceptualized resto-mod of a 1964 Chevrolet Corvair Monza Turbo. She had read the lore of Chevrolet's attempt to compete with Porsche by making a rear engined, rear-wheel drive sports car that had an air-cooled and turbocharged flat-6 power source—several years before Porsche could ever come up with the equivalent 911 Turbo. Unfortunately, the Corvair's design was so inherently poor (at least to novice drivers), its handling so horrendous, and its reputation as a widowmaker so great, that the independent party U.S. politician Ralph Nader had declared it "unsafe at any speed," and its production was dropped by the mid-1970's. What Allison had in mind for this was to modify a Corvair in such a way that its handling and safety would be drastically improved and its engine, drastically more efficient at delivering power to the wheels. To this end, she would have to add additional oil coolers, create more vents directing airflow to the hot-running air-cooled engine, install proper four-wheel disc brakes (cross-drilled rotors by Brembo, perhaps?), and change out the horrendous recirculating ball system for honest-to-goodness rack-and-pinion steering. From there, the sky was the limit. Allison was dreaming big, perhaps a 6-cylinder boxer engine from a Subaru Legacy, utterly brought up to eleven by a Variable-geometry twin-turbo setup and a custom-made aerodynamics makeover that would allow her to trounce unsuspecting Porsche drivers, or, perhaps a different route would be taken, exchanging two cylinders for another 4A-GZE twincharged setup for potentially less weight.

Before Allison could jot her ideas completely in her notebook, class had ended, and they were all dismissed for their next class. Allison loved this one; the next class was driving school with Ms. Olga, and Allison was a teacher's aide in the class, possessing the most driving skill out of any of the cyborgs because of her retained experience in racing through most of her previous life as Shelby Mercer (not that she remembers those days).

* * *

Driving down a two-lane road in an Alfa Romeo 155, Allison had a challenge thrown at her when two cars suddenly came together from opposite sides of the road, blocking her path. With lightning-fast reaction, she braked hard, the discs biting to stop the wheels from any more forward motion as she clutched in and slammed the gear lever into reverse as the car almost completely stopped. Allison then tromped down on the gas pedal, spinning the front tires for a second or two before she began to rocket backwards for a few seconds before throwing the steering wheel towards the left, slewing the nose right 180 degrees as Allison clutched in again while correcting the steering wheel. The gear lever was thrown into first and Allison floored the throttle to escape the sudden ambush, ramming the Alfa through another pair of ambush vehicles attempting to block her exit. She simply ducked her head down and floored it, the speed of her impact shoving the blocking vehicles aside. Once through the barricade, Allison backed off the throttle and downshifted into neutral as the 155 rolled to a stop in front of the rest of the class that had watched the scene transpire. Olga was there to explain.

"And that, boys and girls, is a J-turn. It's a fast way to go the other direction in the event of an ambush. You will of course, notice that Allison kept up her speed through the rear roadblock. Can anyone tell me why?"

"Because sufficient velocity is necessary to clear an obstacle using your own vehicle." answered Gattonero.

"That is correct, Gattonero." confirmed Olga, followed by an explanation. "At the speed Allison was driving, she had no time to accelerate when the front roadblock crossed her path and blocked her. But with the J-turn, she had sufficient acceleration space and considerably more escape speed than she would have had by simply going in reverse. There is only a single, rather low speed for reverse gear. By the time you reach that other roadblock just going in reverse, you won't have enough speed to knock those cars out of the way, and you'll get turned into swiss cheese by the time you get there. Now then, you're all going to try this after a ride-along demonstration by Allison herself. Who wants to go first?"

With Olga expecting someone to raise their hand, Jay was instead "voluntold" by one of his fellow male cyborgs, a British-born Palestinian whom everyone knew as 'Ike'. Jay found himself shoved front and center as Ike yelled, "He'll do it!"

Before Jay could protest, Olga thumbed towards the 155 where Allison was waiting, and he strapped into the passenger's seat with trepidation. As if to assuage his fears, Allison flashed the boy a smile, and Jay felt slightly more at ease, but not by much. Allison then went into a stationary demonstration of what was going to happen.

"What goes into a J-turn isn't terribly complicated." said Allison, grabbing hold of the wheel, the gear lever, and placing her feet on the pedals. "From a stopped position, clutch in, select reverse, clutch out, accelerate backwards, gain some speed. Then, when the timing is right, foot immediately off the gas, clutch in while you quickly steer left to bring the nose around right. While spinning, straighten out, clutch in, shift into first, let the clutch go, and accelerate. Easy enough to follow, I hope?"

"You'd have to show it to me in action. I don't think I follow." replied Jay sheepishly.

"Buckle up, then." said Allison, starting the engine. Moving the car some ways from the rest of the group, Allison came to a stop.

"You ready?"

"I think so-"

Allison gave Jay no time to finish as she threw the 155 into reverse and mashed the accelerator, smoking the front tires temporarily before the 4-door saloon reversed rapidly. At around 30mph or so, Allison jerked the steering wheel hard to the left, and the front tires slewed around as she let off the gas. As she steered right to straighten out, her left foot sunk the clutch pedal in and her right hand brought the gear lever from the reverse slot into first. Allison then released the clutch and floored the gas pedal, shooting the car forward. After a few seconds, Allison applied the brakes and then turned to Jay again.

"Now, do you understand? You have to do this by yourself, you know."

"That was incredible! How could I possibly do that without messing up?" breathed Jay.

"Same way you get to Carnegie Hall—practice." replied Allison with a smile.

After Allison repeated the demonstration with the others, she let them loose into the practice lot of the Section II test track, watching multiple Alfa 155's slew about in J-turn attempts ranging from mildly successful to well-intentioned efforts. Standing next to Olga, she commented about the way the others were learning.

"155's are great little machines, but I think if we had the best funding, we'd be practicing on more powerful cars." said Allison.

"Come now, would you really let this lot learn on a pack of Ferraris?" asked Olga.

"Well, it worked for Kara... and it's not like I'm asking for supercars, just quick vehicles with excellent brakes."

"Might want to take that up with Q-branch, then." Olga suggested.

"I fear they might go overboard...and that I might be part of that." said Allison sheepishly.

The so-called 'Q-branch' was the Social Welfare Agency's Research and Development wing for any and all mission equipment. Essentially a comprehensive work shop, the cyborgs in Section II took Engineering and Technical Education classes here. Their teachers consisted of a colorful band of technicians who were experts in various fields—and more than a few were aspiring mad scientists. Q-branch's facilities were able to repair, service, and modify just about anything and everything under the sun that had moving parts—aircraft, small arms, cars, watercraft, SCUBA gear, etc.—in addition to other mission-essential items and electronics. In the Engineering and Technical Education classes, Cyborgs would learn labor skills such as gunsmithing, auto repair, and technical design. Filled with various special equipment, including a wind tunnel, the cyborgs who attended these classes learned how their designs fared under various conditions before they could even consider building life-sized versions of their projects.

However, outside of class instruction, the men and women of Q-branch tended to go a little bonkers with their more ambitious projects. Case in point, when his cyborg Marisa had smashed its hood in during a panic attack, Elio Alboreto's BMW M3 had been abducted by the brains at Q-branch and made considerably lighter and faster as various body parts were replaced with Carbon Fiber Reinforced Plastic parts. Originally, only the hood was supposed to be replaced, but in the ambition to 'make it better', more and more parts were replaced to the point where handling characteristics became severely affected by the weight reduction.

Technical Education and Engineering was Allison's favorite class to the point where she soon became an honorary member of Q-branch. She herself has contributed to their lunacy, and her time with them has caused Brian more irritation in the form of an apparent tendency to overuse caffeine during the occasional all-nighter while wrenching away on her Lancia. It was a sleepless night that led to Allison installing 007-style X-net launchers in her Lancia to thwart any pursuers.

* * *

After more spinouts, gear -grinding, stalling, and obscenities from a number of the students, the driving school class had ended and the Alfas were parked in a neat row. Allison proceeded to the gymnasium for Physical education class with Ms. Ferro, of all people. Unlike most schools, there was not real "uniform" per se; rather, each sport they moved onto in the curriculum had the appropriate gear and attire. Since their current unit was Tennis, Allison had a Nike Women's Summer Break Point tennis dress in Aster Pink with a multicolored left tank strap and pleat panel hanging in her gym locker. An accompanying pair of tennis shoes was also present on the shelf in her locker, and she changed into both items, placing her street clothes neatly into the locker. Passing by Ms. Ferro on her way out, the instructor checked off Allison's attendance as the brunette grabbed a titanium racquet with strings woven from Kevlar and nylon.

"All right, everyone. Partner off and start playing. Halfway through the class, your pair should group up with another to play doubles." announced Ferro. "Start playing!"

Allison paired up with Laine Stanaway, who like herself, was of British origin. Laine was also the best tennis player in the whole of the Social Welfare Agency, capable of serves and volleys that clocked in at an average of 170 miles per hour. For practices, this was scaled down by 30 miles per hour, but it was plenty enough to keep the cyborgs competitive.

"You serve." said Allison, bouncing the ball to her practice partner.

"You sure you wanna do that?" asked Laine.

"Yes. Hit me with your best shot-"

Allison blinked, and the ball she was supposed to return with a swing instead embedded itself in the chain-link fence behind her.

"Again."

This time, when Laine sent the ball her way, Allison was ready and returned the serve, which Laine expertly sent back to her. Soon enough, Laine started working Allison over to make the brunette petrolhead grunt with the effort of her swings as she started to have difficulty keeping up with Laine's expertise.

Over in the boy's court, Ike was playing against Scott, but the former was looking wistfully in the direction of the girls' court, where the noise was catching his interest. So engrossed was he, that when Scott served the ball, Ike was beaned in the side of the head.

"Oi, Ike! Pay some bleedin' attention, will ya?"

"Sorry, mate. The sexy grunting from the girls' courts was distracting me..."

* * *

After playing against Kara and Laine during the second half of the class, Allison was showered again and on her way to her next classes—Technical Education and Engineering, both held at the SWA "Q-branch." back to back, the first class was more vocation-oriented, whereas Engineering had a more project-based curriculum. In Technical Education, Allison's class was currently undergoing a unit on gunsmithing, which while tedious, Allison found worthwhile. Today's lesson was 'porting' the barrels on certain types of firearms, such as pistols and shotguns. Using a Browning Hi-Power as her project gun, Allison was being taught how to cut holes in the slide and barrel of the pistol to vent escaping gases upward and help minimize muzzle rise.

Since the slide had already been cut as needed, Allison now had to work on the more difficult job of drilling minuscule holes in the barrel itself without affecting the rifling. Thankfully, Q-branch had a lot of handy equipment, and with the help of a drill press, an x-ray machine, and another camera, she rotated the Hi-Power's barrel as she drilled tiny, almost pin-like openings in the barrel, the x-ray machine allowing her to see if the drill was passing through and the camera showing her if she was anywhere near the all-important rifling of the barrel. The trick was to vent the expanding gases from in-between the rifling grooves in order to keep bullet flight stable while reducing muzzle climb and recoil.

As she finished drilling, Allison removed the drill bit from the barrel and took the pistol barrel off of the vise grip holding it in place. Covering the muzzle end of the barrel with her index finger and looking through the breech end, she could see pinpricks of light coming in from where she had drilled. Smiling, she started applying a spray of compressed air to blow out any shavings from the drilling. Satisfied with her work, she also polished the barrel inside and out to a brilliant luster before turning it over to her instructor.

"Looks all right, Allison." said Professor Enzo Cipriani. "But does it shoot?"

"Find out for yourself, I suppose." replied Allison with a shrug.

"I'll take it down to the range later, but you get an 'A' for completing the assignment. Good job."

Allison beamed under the praise before cleaning up her work station, heading to the garage area of the workshop, where they had been working on a Formula SAE racer. Not much larger in stature compared to a Go-kart, the Formula SAE racer was an open-wheeled vehicle powered by a 4-cylinder motorcycle engine that was promptly limited in horsepower by an air restrictor in front of the intake. This brought design, handling, and weight savings to the forefront of their priorities rather than raw horsepower. They had already chosen an aluminum space frame chassis as the base. It was equipped with a wishbone suspension system up front with inboard coil springs mated to Bilstein dampers, and a rear suspension comprised of lower wishbones, single top links, twin radius arms, and another set of inboard Bilstein coil spring/dampers. The engine they had was sourced from a Suzuki Hayabusa sport bike with an IHI RB25 Turbocharger attached, but there was a mandatory air restrictor with an opening the size of an American nickel coin so that it would not necessarily develop maximum horsepower. For this session, Allison took to bolting on the brakes, sourced by AP Racing. These were slotted and cross-drilled rotors originally designed for street cars, but they would find a use on this ambitious open-wheel racer. Since weight was light and speed didn't reach 100 miles per hour, street-application performance brakes would do the job, and they did not have to be fancy carbon-ceramic brakes, as would normally be seen on certain supercars.

Allison took one of the rotors and slid them onto their mountings on the axle. Securing it into place on the central hub of the axle, Allison then started bolting on the brake caliper, emblazoned with the AP Racing logo's yellow letters on black background. She repeated this process until all four brakes were installed on their axles. At this point, she was about to bleed the brakes when she realized she would need someone else's help.

"Annette! Could I get some assistance over here, please?"

The African-American girl walked over to Allison, having just saved her work on the soon-to-be-produced Carbon Fiber shell for the racer. "What's up, Allie?" she asked.

"Could you get inside the driver's seat? I need someone to pump the brakes so that I can get rid of the air in the lines."

"Will do."

Annette Golan hoisted herself over the frame and slipped into the driver's seat, extending her leg towards the center pedal. Annette followed Allison's instructions to pump the brakes as she needed and spent roughly the next quarter-hour removing the air from each individual brake line. By the time they finished, class was over, and it was the last class of the day. The cyborgs would have use of the training facilities as they wished—with supervision, of course—for the rest of the day. Right now, however, it was time for lunch, and Allison did not miss a beat in making haste to the cafeteria. As she neared it, the unmistakably aromatic scent of barbecue and grilling meat wafted through the air, pleasing and teasing the nostrils of whoever smelled its delightful, delicious, mouth-watering fragrance. The kitchen staff practically never did this, so only one person she knew of could possibly pull this off.

"Becky, your cooking smells delicious, as usual." complimented Allison to the cook of the lunch hour. Becky Schmidt was a fairly recent addition to the cyborg team, but her handler/adoptive mother schooled the Canadian, who like her handler, was a cowgirl at heart, allowing for a common bond that quickly solidified their relationship as a _sorella_. One of the finer points that was taught to Becky was cooking on a grill, and those skills paid off as people went into the cafeteria anticipating the young girl's cooking.

"Thanks, Allie!" replied the blonde cowgirl working the lunch line, her signature stetson hat adorning her head in place of a chef's hat. Her personalized barbecue apron, stretched at the top due to her considerable bust read, _**"I hope you appreciate the meal; do you know how f**king hard it is to kill a steer with your bare hands?"**_

"What's on today's menu?"

"We have a cookout theme going today." replied Becky. "Shish kebabs, barbecue chicken, T-bone steaks, pork chops, corn-on-the-cob, pigs-in-a-blanket, Mashed potatoes, rice, gravy, and so on. Take your pick and eat your fill, come back for seconds, if you like, but be sure to leave room for dessert!"

"What's for dessert?"

"Lots of things: Watermelon, Cantaloupe, Peach and/or Cherry Cobbler, maybe some ice cream, and a fresh batch of fudge brownies."

"Can't wait, Becky. Looking forward to it." replied Allison.

"My pleasure." replied Becky. "Y'all enjoy your meal now, 'hear?"

Allison took her loaded tray to a nearby table where a Caucasian American teenager was sitting, appearing to be scribbling down notes on a piece of paper, not having really touched his food.

"Hey, Matthew! How's it going?" asked Allison of the boy, who brought his head up with a smile.

"Allie! Hay guuuuurl, wass crackin'?" replied Matthew in his unique inner city form of English, exchanging a fist pound with the brunette.

"Not much, just finished shop class, you?"

"Just got done science with Mr. Pagani. Yo, he a real chill dude, knowwhati'msayin'?"

"Yeah, I think I get what you mean." replied Allison as she dug into her steak. "Whatcha' writing?"

"Oh this?" Matthew asked, gesturing to the piece of paper. "I'm writin' down some rhymes, y'know, kickin' out some fresh lyrics and shit. It ain't done yet, tho'."

"Well, you mind if I hear what you've got so far?"

"A'ight, but don't expect anything really good, word?"

"Word. Let's hear it."

Matthew cleared his throat and used his knuckle to rap out a usable beat on the table before he began his rap.

_Yo, it's Matty D again, and I'm on the attack,_

_DJ E and Drummer Ike backin' me up on da track!_

_It's time for a new lesson, break you off somethin' new, _

_A story about Padania, the enemy—and you._

_I'm talkin' P.R.F.-the first subject of this rhyme,_

_Those busters started shit way before my time._

_Couldn't appreciate Italy, and none of them do,_

_so they said "Fuck the Police!" and blew them up too._

_So just what'll stop these punks runnin' round?_

_If they keep actin' up, shit'll burn to the ground!_

_That's my cue to come in-_

_(Yo, whatchu sayin, Matty D?)_

_I'm an assassin, motherfucker!_

_That's right, you heard me!_

_The Padanians all think they hardcore cats,_

_But they don't got skill like me when I bust out the gat._

_I got two MAC-10's, a golden-plated 'K,_

_Twin nines, and a Deagle, ni**a; Yippee-Ki-Yay!_

Abruptly, Matthew appeared to have finished his rap, leaving Allison hanging.

"That's it?"

"I told you, girl, that's all I got right now. But whatchu think so far?"

Allison pondered the rhyme for a moment. Then, "It's... a start. That's all I can say. And It'd probably be better for you to avoid using the n-word. You _are_ white, after all."

"My bad, dawg." replied Matthew, scratching his head. "I was raisin' myself on the streets, and well... force of habit, y'know?"

"I understand, but find a substitute." said Allison. "Other than that, keep fleshing it out. You eat yet? That might help a bit."

"Exactly what I was thinking." said Becky, coming over to the table. "Something the matter with the food, Matt?"

"Uh—naw, Becky! I was just writin' some new rhymes, nothing's wrong with your food, Becky, I swear! You make the best eats I ever had, girl!" stammered Matthew, his face taking on a nervous countenance.

"I'll believe that when y'all come up with a freestyle rap singing the praises of every single dish I've cooked." said Becky with a smile. "Just kiddin', but please do eat."

As Becky walked away, her bust bouncing slightly in her apron with each step, Allison shot a smirk at Matthew, drawing more nervousness out of the boy.

"Allie, why you eyein' me up like that?"

"You _like_ Becky, don't you?" Allison whispered.

"Say what? Wh-whatchu talkin' bout, Allie? You crazy, perpetuatin' that kinda noise. I just think Becky be real cool, dig?"

"Riiight." replied Allison. "Well don't worry, 'Matty D'. I won't tell a soul."

"I sure hope not." said Matthew, taking another glance at Becky, this time at her figure. "But daaaaaaaamn, she fine."

"Just don't make a fool out of yourself and stare at her chest when you finally work up the nerve to actually talk to her one-on-one. I know they're huge, but that's not where a lady's face is."

* * *

After lunch, the cyborgs of Section 2 had their own free time to do homework or practice their skills. Since Allison had little way of homework, and her skill was driving, a trip to the test track was in order. After passing through the corridors of the Social Welfare Agency to get her driving shoes from her dorm room, she popped by the range to find Professor Cipriani testing the Browning she had been smithing in shop class. Allison waved to him out of the corner of his eye, and he stopped shooting to wave her in, foregoing the requirement of her handler needing to be present for entry.

"It's shooting very well, Allison." commented Enzo as he ejected the magazine and manually ejected the chambered cartridge. "It hasn't blown up in my face, and it's more accurate, with a noticeable lack of recoil."

"Do I pass?" asked Allison with hope.

"Oh, absolutely. But whether or not it's the best gun made in your class remains to be seen." replied the professor. "Now run along."

Allison continued on her way to the parking lot, passing the padded gym on the way. She stopped for a peek and found Henrietta sparring with Johanneke, a recent addition to the group whose specialty was close combat. The Afrikaner motivated the younger cyborg by encouraging her as she landed blows on the practice pads Johanneke was holding up for her.

"C'mon 'Etta, keep up your rhythm, that's it!" shouted Johanneke, Henrietta throwing out jabs whose _pop-pop_ noises echoed in the gym as she exhaled with each attack. The two were constantly moving, keeping their heart rates up as they engaged in the aerobic exercise and Allison waved to them, and both waved back before they continued their spar and Allison went on her merry way.

Soon, Allison made her way to the parking lot and unlocked the doors to her beloved Delta. Slipping into one of two Recaro bucket seats comprising the driver and front passenger's seats, she secured her seatbelt across her body as she inserted the key into the ignition and gave it a twist, the turbocharged 4-cylinder engine up front coming to life with a vivacious whine. Releasing the handbrake, Allison shifted into first and gave the engine some throttle as she went off in the direction of the test track some distance away from the main compound. She goosed the throttle, and the 5-door rally-bred hatchback responded with instant, rocket-like acceleration provided by the aftermarket Garrett Variable-Geometry turbocharger that shoved her back momentarily into her seat as she approached the track entrance, where the pit area was also located.

While the test track was based on a racing circuit, it did not have the traditional pit lane alongside a starting grid, so any thoughts of organized FIA-style racing would require a renovation to entertain. Allison cinched up her seatbelt by pulling the slack out all the way until she heard a click, and then slowly let the seatbelt reel itself back in, the locking mechanism securing her firmly against the seat. Easing the Delta onto the track, she throttled up, and the 4-wheel-drive hatchback gained grip as she took off down the main straightaway before disappearing past the first sweeping left-hand turn.

Soon, Allison was mounting an all-out assault on the apexes and chicanes of the SWA test track, each successive turn punctuated by the temporary rumble of her Lancia's sports tires on the kerbing of each turn. She was on her way towards the penultimate corner of the track back into the main straight when the roar of a high-strung motorcycle engine popped into her world. A quick glance revealed it was Adeline Melita, the only recon cyborg in the whole of Section 2 to use a motorcycle in all her missions. Her BMW R100 touring bike screamed to higher revs as the biker girl twisted the throttle further back, rocketing out of the corner and into the straight. She gave Allison a wave before accelerating further while Allison smiled and shook her head. Allison respected motorcycles—Brian himself owned a Yamaha Virago touring bike—but she just didn't hold a lot of interest in them.

As she headed into the sweeping left after Adeline, however, a noise came from behind that she definitely had an interest in. It was a V8, and not just any V8. Specifically, it was a Chevrolet-built LS1 small-block V8 churning out 402 big-block brake horsepowers down the driveshaft and out the rear wheels of a fast-approaching Holden Special Vehicles VT Commodore GTS Series II 4-door saloon car. As the Australian muscle sedan approached, Allison blipped her horn at the driver, Kyo Fitzgibbons. Kyo was the brother in a pair of Japanese twins who had recently been taken into the Social Welfare Agency and their handler was a female Australian pilot-for-hire that worked with the SWA in support of field operations by providing air-dropped supplies and Close Air Support capability.

Kyo waved back as he overtook Allison into the corner, skillfully blipping the brakes, causing a weight shift as he mashed on the gas pedal before pumping it, sending the Commodore into a prolonged tire-smoking powerslide round the corner, which Allison found herself jealous of. Grinning, she downshifted to catch up, the variable-geometry turbocharger spooling quickly, almost as if it were a supercharger. Entering the corner, she yanked the handbrake as she steered, breaking her Delta's rear tires loose and hit the accelerator, using minimal countersteer, due to the Lancia's all-wheel-drive setup, as she performed a clean four-wheel drift out of the corner exit. Relaxing the accelerator to regain grip, the Delta snapped back in line and she gunned the throttle, homing in on Kyo. The boy did not fail to notice the Monza Red hatchback quickly looming in his rear-view mirror.

"Oh c-crap, she's serious!" Kyo said to himself nervously. "All right, I guess I can give her a run for her money." he added, regaining his confidence that he usually had when driving the Commodore. Shifting up, he gunned the pedal as the sedan gained power and rocketed down the straight as Allison also shifted up and brought up the revs on her Delta. She caught up as Kyo slowed down to take the corner, and Allison took the inside as Kyo began making the turn, bringing her to the lead. Soon enough, the two became engaged in a sort of _tsuiso_, a chase run composed almost entirely of drifting as they dueled slide for slide, smoke cloud for smoke cloud. The muscular Commodore blew away the Delta in the straights, but its lumbering weight slowed it down and made it harder to control in a drift while Allison's less-powerful but more balanced Delta HF Integrale Evoluzione II reeled him in. The two showboated all in good fun, and for a while, it was just them letting their hair down while exercising their skills and lead feet until the roar of an aircraft engine zoomed by overhead. It was Kyo's twin sister, Ryo, piloting the very maneuverable SIAI-Marchetti SF.260 single-seat sport aircraft mere meters above the track, flying low and fast. As she zoomed past overhead, she banked off at the turn up ahead and soared into the air in a steep ascent, activating the smoke generator mounted at the tail of the aircraft as she began performing maneuvers seen at airshows, including corkscrews, barrel rolls, and loops. If Kyo was meant to handle the earth on four wheels, his sister would support him from above, mastering the skies.

As Ryo did her own thing, Allison and Kyo continued racing around the test track until their fuel levels were becoming a tad low. Pulling into the pits to refuel, the two noticed that some handlers had also come out to play. Annette's handler-slash-mother Sarah Golan pulled into the track driving her very aggressive and loud 1969 Ford Mustang Mach 1, its Boss 302 V8 idling menacingly, and the occasional rev revealing the high-pitched whine of a Paxton NOVI supercharger, as if it were a Rolls-Royce Merlin engine from a Supermarine Spitfire stuffed under the hood rather than anything built by Ford Motor Company. Kyo and Ryo's handler Jennifer Fitzgibbons also showed up in her 1976 Holden LX Torana 5000 SLR, which sported a modified 5-liter OHV V8 boosted by Throttle-body injection as evidenced by the external intake manifold that jutted out above the carbon-fiber hood as well as a TWR supercharger. They should have been rivals, as Ford and Holden fans are apt to be, but the two women would be taking on two male handlers coming in; both driving rally-bred cars. Ike's handler Michael McMillan was running a 1995 Ford Escort Cosworth RS, kept stock for his own reasons, while Johanneke's handler Marcus Spriggs rolled in with his Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution IX FQ-360. Unlike Michael, he had his car tuned up by Allison with a new exhaust and air intake, but most importantly, a BorgWarner Variable-Geometry turbocharger that would give him all the turbo power he needed without the lag. It was going to be another muscle-versus-handling battle, but it was one Allison would not be around to watch, though Kyo might have been persuaded by his handler to give chase or at least watch how the grown-ups do things. After she refueled, she exited the pits to head back to the compound just as the four handlers eased their way onto the track with a rolling start, Supercharged V8's and Turbocharged four-bangers roaring in a disorganized cacophony. While there was still daylight, Allison had to get some target practice in as part of her training regimen, though it would not involve shooting from her car, which was one of her specialties. Some garden-variety target practice was in order, and she met up with Brian, whose RS6 was parked near the outdoor shooting range, comprised of improvised firing lanes and a large dirt mound serving as a backstop for the shooters' bullets. Brian was already getting his eye in with both his Heckler & Koch HK416 carbine and his Kimber Stainless Custom II service pistol, and a handful of other _fratello_ were there to practice as well. He stopped firing as Allison parked her Delta nearby, letting the engine idle as the turbocharger settled down before shutting off the engine.

"About time you showed up, sunshine." said Brian over the din of firing, reaching into his pocket to remotely unlock the trunk of the RS6. "I brought your primary out for you. Let's get rolling."

Allison did as told, retrieving her Tavor CTAR-21 and its accompanying magazines, as well as some spares, she noted, for her Kimber.

As Allison began expertly placing rounds on-target downrange, the other cyborgs also doing target practice varied in their own styles. At one far end of the firing lanes, Handler Chelsea Koch observed Scott as he practiced aimed, controlled bursts with his unusually-configured Knight's Armament Company "ChainSAW," a modified Stoner Light Machine Gun that was designed to be fired from the hip as if it were an M56 "Smartgun" from the James Cameron movie _Aliens_. A laser sight was mounted on the weapon to facilitate aiming for the weapon, since its current configuration precluded the usage of its sights. The intermittent, staccato chatter of the suppressed belt-fed machine gun made the thing sound like a typewriter as it obliterated the man-sized target downrange.

Meanwhile, somewhat nearer Allison and Brian were Matthew and his handler Alonso DiGirolomo. As the latter fired controlled bursts from his Barrett M468 carbine, he often glanced over at his cyborg, who was busy blazing away at his target with both his and his handler's sidearms, which were Magnum Research Desert Eagle .50AE handguns. He held one each of the monstrous, ridiculous hand cannons in each hand at a 45-degree cant, and simply emptied the 8-round magazines at the target. While an impressive sight, it was not accurate shooting, each bullet either missing the target completely or winging the man-sized target in areas that were less lethal than center-of-mass. He then switched to his custom gold-plated AKMS assault rifle, and upon racking a round into the chamber, fired the weapon on fully-automatic from the hip. He burned through the 30-round magazine quickly, and instead of reloading, he pulled out a pair of his own Beretta 92FS Inox pistols and was about to continue further sideways-shooting idiocy when Alonso finally corrected him.

"Keep you gun in this position and line up the sights." said Alonso, twisting his charge's gun-toting hand back to a more normal position. "Now, shoot."

Matthew popped off a few rounds, which struck the target dead-center.

"Now, isn't that better?" asked Alonso.

"It ain't got no style, A-dawg!" replied Matthew in complaint. "I think it looks cooler when I aim my gat sideways, know what I'm sayin?"

"Matthew, be honest with me." said Alonso. "Do you think the Padania will care how cool you look when you're shooting at them?"

"No, sir." sulked Matthew.

"Exactly. And you'll just be wasting ammo, giving them the opportunity to paste you when you reload. Do you really want that?"

"No, sir."

"Good. Then keep practicing, and aim like you do on missions this time."

As Matthew embarked on a round of corrected shooting, Scott was now on a radio with Ryo.

"Riflebird three-zero, this is Claymore. Requesting Close Air Support on my mark, over."

"Copy, Claymore. Mark your target, over." replied Ryo, approaching the target range in the P-51D Mustang she had switched to.

Scott shoved a red smoke round into the underbarrel grenade launcher mounted on his ChainSAW, aimed at an old truck downrange, and fired it, the canister pirouetting through the air before landing and spewing its contents.

"Claymore has red smoke, repeat, red smoke away, over!"

"Riflebird confirms red smoke, Claymore."

"Lay in a strafing fire, 200 meters from perimeter."

"Roger, Claymore. Get your heads down."

Scott quickly called out to the others on the firing range. "Friendly aircraft inbound, hold your fire and get your heads down!"

Everyone knew that this had only recently become routine, but they did as told, anyway. Allison held her fire and got belly-down on the ground along with Brian, the other handlers and their cyborgs following suit. Ryo swept in overhead with her Mustang, Rolls-Royce Merlin engine on full combat power, and started opening fire with the 25mm Bushmaster chainguns mounted on the bottom of the fuselage, booming like thunder as they fired. The 25mm HE rounds kicked up gobs of dirt as they eventually found their target with the truck, sending the unusable vehicle up in a spectacular fireball as Ryo gained altitude upon completing her strafing.

"Target engaged, Claymore. Any other targets, over?"

"None at this time, Riflebird. Thanks for the assist, over."

"Solid Copy, Claymore. Riflebird out."

The P-51 flew back the way it came in, waggling its wings as it flew past overhead. The handlers and their cyborgs on the range's firing line got to their feet as they watched what had been previously been an old delivery truck burn as a pile of scrap metal.

"Scott, dawg, that was tight!" complimented Matthew. "Y'all smoked that hooptie like it was bacon! One second, it was just some bust-a-john sitting all wack-ass down there, then BLAOW! One-eight-seven on that truck, yo!"

"Not me, man. I just called it in. Ryo did all the shooting for that one." replied Scott modestly.

"Still, it was outta sight." added Matthew with a grin.

* * *

As sunset turned into evening, the cyborgs and their handlers rushed to the cafeteria for dinner, served up by Becky and her handler/mother Cindy Schmidt. While there were plenty of leftovers from the cookout lunch, what really drew everyone in this evening was the monthly 'Taco Night', an event introduced by Cindy, who was an expert with Tex-Mex cooking. The taco shells were made at least a month in advance from scratch, cooked, and then stored for the eventual Taco Night the following month. By keeping them sealed properly, the tortilla shells were unlikely to go stale, and when combined with all the filling items, there was a satisfying crunch as the diners present made that first bite into that seemingly-exotic Southwest American creation. For people who previously lived on a diet of whatever was available, and at that, predominantly European cuisine, Becky and Cindy were a welcome addition to the Social Welfare Agency, because not only was the food they made different from what they had been dining on before, but their food was made with the kind of love and care that mothers and grandmothers exude from their kitchens.

"I have to admit, I need to learn from those two." said Kara, biting into the first taco on her plate, piled high with ground beef, shredded lettuce, melting cheese, and sour cream. "I never thought this stuff would be so damn good."

"Feeling threatened by their culinary prowess, are we?" Allison teased.

"Hardly. Though they certainly bring something new to the table, metaphorically and literally speaking."

Allison rolled her eyes. "If that's what you want to believe, then all right. Perhaps a cook-off is not far ahead in the future?"

"Perhaps." concluded Kara, taking another bite and savoring the taste. "_Oishii!"_

At Matthew and Alonso's table, the younger of the two was well into his fourth taco.

"Mmf! Oh man, I could grub on these all day, yo!" exclaimed Matthew. "Taco Bell ain't got nothing on Becky and Ms. Schmidt!"

"Darlin', if Taco Bell is the standard you judge my cookin' by, it's only fair you deserve more." said Cindy, approaching with another tray of tacos. "Poor dear, y'all never tasted real home cookin' before gettin' here, have you?"

"Closest I could ever get was Taco Bell, ma'am." Matthew admitted to the Texan woman.

"Well then, you just eat up, sug'. There's plenty to go around tonight." said Cindy with a smile. Matthew returned it as he dug in while Alonso shook his head, a small smile on the man's face.

"You're spoiling him, Cindy." said Alonso. "You keep doing this, he's gonna grow fat and slow."

"Says the man who gave his boy a gold-plated AK-47." Cindy shot back. "Last I remember, ol' Lorenzo told me that it's practically impossible for this special set of kids to get bogged down with fat. Besides, look at him, he's as thin as a rail!"

"Thanks for the food, Ms. Schmidt!" said Matthew in between mouthfuls.

"Anytime, hon. Me and Becky are always looking for reasons to cook, so if you're ever hungry, let us know, and we'll see if we can't whip up a pick-me-up for ya."

"Much appreciated, Ms. Schmidt."

"Y'all take care now and enjoy your food, hear? I'm gonna go see Erina now; she's probably the only girl who can put 'em away like you, Matthew."

"Thanks again!"

Cindy got up and began walking away to another table where a 15-year-old girl with headphones around her neck was devouring what appeared to be half a dozen tacos. Matthew and Alonso watched the Texan woman leave before Matthew began making comments.

"Man, Ms. Schmidt is so nice, I wish she was my moms." said Matthew, directing his eyes towards his handler. "She's single, last I heard. Why don't you marry her?"

Alonso was taken by surprise from the casual way Matthew asked the question, producing a spit take as he drank from his glass of water.

"Are you crazy? I'm like ten years younger than her! Granted, she's a nice lady, but not my type. Besides, I know you like Becky-"

"Again with that noise?" said Matthew nervously. "Why does everyone think I like her? I just think she real cool, y'know?"

"Right. Whatever, keep telling yourself that." said Alonso. "Now then, as I was saying—before I was so rudely interrupted—I _know_ you like Becky, so how about you be the one to get hitched, instead? Just work on your English skills some more, and I'm sure she will be a lovely wife for you in no time."

The seriousness faded from Alonso's face as he began to chuckle as Matthew turned redder at the thought.

"W-well, I guess if she were m-my wife, I-I would be the happiest man in the world." admitted Matthew sheepishly.

"See? There you go, just be honest with yourself. That wasn't so hard, was it?" asked Alonso.

"Harder than you think, dawg." Matthew shot back indignantly.

* * *

After dinner, there were mere hours to go until lights-out. Some of the handlers went home, including Brian and Michele, to their apartments or other homes in Rome nearby. As for the cyborgs, it was time to kill by catching up on their studies, or indulging in hobbies. Allison was on her way to get some videogame time in before bed back at her dorm with Petra when she stopped by one of the newly-built common rooms for handlers and cyborgs alike. These common rooms were set up in a lounge-like fashion, and they were typically stocked with a mini-fridge of caffeine-free diet soft drinks (to prevent any sugar rushes) and bottled water, a large television, and a number of chairs and tables arranged for a relaxed setting. This common room happened to have a PlayStation 2 hooked up to the television, and the game that the room's occupants had chosen was Konami's _Dance Dance Revolution Supernova_. Currently, the sound of feet thundering down on arcade-quality Cobalt Fusion dance pads resounded as Tatsh and Naoki's _Red Zone_ went through its finale, ending on a jump step for both players. Allison popped her head in to see that Petra was playing against Erina's handler, Nate Gilbert. While Petra had managed to eke out an "A" rating on Basic difficulty (no small task, for anyone who's at best played DDR casually), Nate had an obsessive talent for the game ever since he first got it as a child, and he had missed absolutely zero steps, nailing a perfect 357-step combination on Expert difficulty, earning him an "AAA" rating and a new record. Petra huffed and puffed with the effort she had put into making her rating on basic, yet here stood Nate, hardly a bead of sweat on his brow, and looking ready to go again.

"Are you even human?" Petra asked in between gasps.

"As far as I know, yes." answered Nate in an almost smug tone.

"Bullshit, you're probably some kind of new-generation cyborg that no one knows about yet. That, or an alien or something."

"Well, back in my high school days, people often stared at me as if I was from another planet, so your theory might have some basis there." Nate shot back with a grin, to which Petra just gave a tired groan.

"Hate to interrupt your witty banter, Mr. Gilbert, but where's Erina?" asked Allison.

"Probably in her room, mixing up something new on her turntable mixer. That, or replicating a _DJ Hero_ mix, which she has done _over 9000_ times."

"Thanks!" replied Allison, ignoring the handler's use of an overused internet phrase. She left the room in search of Erina's dorm room, shared with Ryo. One thing about that room was that it was easy to find, especially when Erina was busy practicing her mixing. It would be the only room in the girls' dorm with flashing lights seeping out from the crack in the door jamb, and depending on the track(s) being mixed, a heavy, pulsating bass beat that one could feel from down the hall.

Approaching Erina's room, Allison laid her hand on the doorknob when from inside the room came four gunshots in succession, and she jumped back, anticipating contact. But as she listened carefully, she could hear the main background beat of _Paper Planes_ by M.I.A., and the lyrics of Bon Jovi's _Wanted Dead or Alive_ played over the track. Breathing a sigh of relief, she twisted the doorknob to open the door and was met full-force by the audio coming out of the surround-sound speaker system in the room. The black-haired DJ was lost in her own world, eyes closed as she grooved to the beat, keeping the hook of _Paper Planes_ going as she faded out Bon Jovi's lyrics, switching out that song for Benny Benassi's _Satisfaction_, starting a loop of the main hook as she faded out the M.I.A. song, bringing up the vocals of Sir Mix-A-Lot's _Baby Got Back_. The result was fun to dance to, the lyrics were hilarious, and she started adding her own scratch effects at certain points after the first verse, her left hand working the crossfader as her right hand blipped the record of _Baby Got Back_ to and fro, achieving the best prolonged scratch effect.

"Erina!" Allison called, but the young DJ didn't hear her.

"ERINA!" Allison called again, this time Erina snapping her eyes open and immediately stopping her turntables.

"Oh hey, Allie!" replied Erina cheerily. "I didn't hear you come in."

"Not with this sound system blaring like it is, you won't. Anyway, can I have my _Guns of the Patriots_ soundtrack back?"

"Oh sure, let me get it real quick." Erina turned to the shelf behind her and flipped through the collection until she found a CD case containing the _Metal Gear Solid 4: Guns of the Patriots_ Official Soundtrack disc. She pulled it out and handed it to Allison.

"What are you planning to do with the songs you ripped?" Allison inquired.

"Not sure yet, but wait a little, I'll come up with something good."

"Dibs on first listen!"

"You got it, Allie. Anything else?" asked Erina, replacing her headphones around her neck.

"Nope, just wanted my CD back. Good luck and good night, Er'."

"Isn't that the other way around? Anyway, I'll see you round, Allison."

Heading back to her room, Allison was alone as she booted up her Xbox 360 game console, which today had a purpose-designed racing wheel connected to one of its USB ports. As Allison loaded up Forza Motorsport 3, signing on as 'AMDrifter89', she got a party invite from a fellow Xbox Live 'friend' located in some unknown location around the world. Fortunately, Allison never once used her actual name (especially when signing up for Xbox Live), and for that matter, neither did any of her online buddies. It gave a sense of camaraderie, yet no one risked any serious violation of their privacy, thanks to the blanket of anonymity that the Microsoft Corporation provided with the service. When she saw that the party was about to race on Fuji Speedway, Allison quickly selected a car from her garage—a facsimile of her real-life Lancia Delta HF Integrale Evoluzione II. She locked in her selection, and the games began.

An hour later, Petra arrived from her shower just as Allison placed first in the final race of the evening, this one in Silverstone Circuit. Allison bade her online friends goodbye as she logged out of Xbox Live and turned off the console.

"How'd it go?" asked Petra.

"The usual. I smoked everyone else."

"You should really play with a gamepad. That's just unfair to the other guys you're playing with."

"They all play with wheels just so that they can keep up. Even then, that doesn't work."

Petra shrugged and clambered to her bed on the top bunk as Allison went to shower. 15 minutes later, the brunette was back in the dorm room as lights-out took effect. Allison tucked herself under the covers of her bed, Petra already snoring lightly above her.

"What a great day." Allison mused aloud before she went to sleep, herself.


	5. Pace Notes Part 1

Tire Tracks and Spent Casings

**A Gunslinger Girl Fanfic by MP5**

Disclaimer: Gunslinger Girl is the property of Yu Aida. All trademarks featured herein are copyright their respective owners. Allison, Brian, Jennifer, Kyo, and Ryo as well as other original characters herein are property of MP5 unless otherwise noted. Michele Pagani and Kara Pagani are the property of Kiskaloo. Mr. Ramsey, Elio Alboreto, and Marisa Alboreto are the property of Professor Voodoo. Gina is the property of Darthtabby. Jay Valentine is the property of Jacen Starslayer.

**Chapter 5: Pace Notes (Part 1)  
**

Another day had begun at the Social Welfare Agency, but for Jennifer Fitzgibbons and Brian McDonnell, things were once again not exactly business as usual. Chief Lorenzo and Jean had them in the boss' office together to brief them for a mission that would be executed in a matter of days.

"Fitzgibbons, McDonnell, the specialties of your _fratelli_ will be most essential to this operation." began Lorenzo.

"The operation is asset extraction. Section One has a man in the north who has valuable intel, but he might've been compromised, and now he needs a way out." said Jean.

"Bugger all." hissed Brian. "Not this shite again."

"Why can't he get out unnoticed?" asked Jennifer quizzically. "Why does Section One need us?"

"Because he's neck-deep in Padania territory, and the local cops are on the take." replied Lorenzo. "The bastards have set up checkpoints and they're stopping every car that's outbound from the area."

"Kind of heavy for one man. What bogus crap are they charging him with?" asked Brian.

"It doesn't matter. This meeting is focusing on the reason your fratelli are specifically needed." said Jean. "McDonnell, your cyborg is the best driver out of all the cyborgs. Does she have any rallying experience?"

"A tiny bit. Why do you ask?"

"You and Allison are going to be the first ones there. You'll be there ostensibly for an amateur special stage day rally through a tricky backwoods area that also happens to lead to an ideal RV point wide enough to land a fairly large cargo aircraft."

"That must be where I come in." said Jennifer. "I'm curious, though, why not just Fulton this bloke out of there?"

"Besides the fact that technology hasn't been used by the Italian Government's agencies ever?" replied Lorenzo. "It would mean delivering the necessary equipment for him to use that, and we don't have that kind of equipment or time available."

"Well, you do realize that we'd have to install a rollcage inside the Delta for the rally? That takes time, too." replied Brian.

"Pop by Q-branch before your fratelli start training for the most key part of this operation, they'll have what you need in advance." said Jean.

"Dare I ask what is so important?"

"You'll be landing in a confined space, roughly 1000 meters at most." replied Lorenzo, focusing on a particular map. "There won't be any time to re-set for taking off. So instead, I expect your fratelli to practice boarding a moving aircraft by car."

"Oh, I get it." said Jennifer. "Basically, touch down, drop the ramp, reel them in, ramp up, and off we go?"

"In a nutshell." confirmed Lorenzo.

"Have you people lost your fucking heads?" Brian raged. "That shit only happens in James Bond movies!"

"Well now, you're going to make it happen in real life, and if Marisa could come up with an outlandish plan that worked, then I see no reason as to why we cannot take refuge in audacity, either." replied Lorenzo calmly. "We're giving you—both of you—a week to practice your tactics in advance, and the mission itself has a few days because of the rally, immediately after which the extraction itself must occur."

"We're obviously gonna need a large plane for this. The Marquise is too small, and it's meant for parachute jumps, but not delivery. I'll need time to get a cargo plane that can fit a car and accept its load through a ramp in the back." said Jennifer.

"Make it so." said Jean. "McDonnell, in the meantime, retrieve your mission vehicle and head out to the new area near the test track. We had some Q-branch engineers build a mock-up of the rally course in question. Allison needs to memorize it and get used to the handling of her mission vehicle before she even gets there. I'm expecting no mistakes, McDonnell."

"You won't get any, Jean. Not with my Allison, you won't."

Brian walked out while Jennifer stayed behind to discuss further logistics of the mission. He thought that Allison should probably go with him down to Q-branch, and so he made his way over to the girls' cyborg dorms until he found Allison and Petra's room. Taking a breath, he knocked twice on the door.

"Come in!" called Allison's voice. Brian opened the door and stepped inside to see that Allison was finishing up a stage on _Colin McRae's Dirt_, a Rallying-based driving game. On-screen, Allison had just blitzed the stage in about five minutes, and she sighed with relief and satisfaction.

"Wanna try the real thing?" asked Brian off-handedly.

"What?"

"Just got back from a mission briefing. In about a week, we'll be heading north to rescue one of Section One's blokes. At the same time, there's gonna be a special stage rally, and that's our in. We'll be actual participants, but that's more of a cover and a practice run on the exfil route. Apparently, Q-branch already has a mission vehicle set up for you, so we won't have to spend time hammering away with the Delta."

"All right! I can't wait to start practicing!"

"Not so fast there, lass. That doesn't mean you get out of lessons. You'll be spending more time training, yes, but you'll still have literature class with Hilshire."

"Aw, man! I _hate_ that class!" complained the brunette teenager.

"Cheer up, you'll be reading _The Stranger_ by Albert Camus. It's a very good book, and what's more, it's short, compared to _Madame Bovary_. Trust me, you'll have read it within a week. Now then, let's go see what they have for us."

The two then embarked on a quick jaunt down to the Q-branch workshop. Professor Cipriani greeted the pair.

"Well, if it isn't our most ambitious student and her elder brother. Right this way, you two. We just finished her."

Cipriani led the fratello over to a cloth-covered vehicle. "I do hope she's to your liking, Allison." said the professor. "Her rarity's made her a hard catch, but we found one and had it shipped over from the British Isles."

Cipriani pulled the cloth cover off to reveal a 1999 Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution VI Tommi Makinen Edition. It had been prepped for rallying by Q-branch with specialized all-terrain tires, a rollcage, and the ride height had been adjusted to cope with the bumps and jumps native to off-road special stage rallying. Allison's eyes lit up catching the light glinting off of the dark red paint finish only marginally interrupted by the minimalist pinstripe along the sides of the car that indicated it was the special Tommi Makinen Edition version of the Lancer Evolution.

"She's beautiful." said Allison, her hand caressing the hood gently. "Anything tweaked in the engine bay?"

"We used your methods of tuning for that, my dear." Cipriani elaborated, unlatching the hood, exposing the 4-cylinder 4G63 powerplant. "We replaced the standard ball-bearing turbo with a Garrett VGT for better response, we put in an HKS Hi-flow exhaust, new air filter and cold-air intake, and after that... well, that's really all there is. Exhaust and forced-induction tuning."

"Defensive measures?" asked Brian.

"It's a street-legal rally car, not a technical. It's not designed for taking bullets." quipped Cipriani. "That said, we did weave Kevlar and Twaron into the front and rear seats, and the windows are made of ballistically-rated Lexan and laminated. The doors and trunk also boast laminated titanium and CFRP armor plating. However, you don't want to be sticking around too long if there's people with rifles about. It will stop most pistol rounds, but only resistant against rifle bullets."

"And that's why _I'm_ driving this thing, right?" Allison boasted.

"Only because Michele won't let Kara get involved in special-stage rallying." replied Enzo. "That, and this is your specialty."

"Not that there's anything wrong with the _Mille Miglia_." added Brian quickly. "Anyway, Jean said that Q-branch also built a mock-up of the rally course itself?"

"Not just the rally course, but also the field that you will be extracting from."

"I didn't know the Social Welfare Agency had that much land." said Brian.

"Then you haven't met the gardener."

Elsewhere on the compound, as he trimmed an azalea bush, Section 2's gardener, known to the girls and boys as Mr. Ramsey, sneezed three times in succession.

"Anyhow, would you like to get started with practice so that we can make adjustments to the car? I imagine you would like to place high on the stage time board?"

"You bet!" chirped Allison. "Where's the keys?"

* * *

"-Long straight, to over crest, to hard right, to Hairpin, to straight, and finish." recited Brian at machine gun pace as he bounced around in his racing harness, communicating with Allison over their in-helmet intercoms. Scant seconds later, Allison buried the throttle down a long straight before meeting with a jump, and a 90-degree right turn, then flung the tail out as she rounded the hairpin, gunning the throttle as she lined up with the corner exit. Roaring down the final straight of the course, she blew past the line and then brought the Lancer Evolution to a skidding halt, turfing up grass as she did so.

"That was awesome!" exclaimed Allison. "How'd I do?"

"Five minutes flat." replied Brian, looking at his stopwatch.

"Bet I can do it faster."

"Well, that was only the first run. Let's go back and do it again."

And so they did. With Allison at least vaguely familiar with the course, their next run netted her an extra ten seconds less, placing her at four minutes fifty. As Allison pushed further, the subsequent runs gained slightly lower times until they began to plateau around four minutes thirty. By then, they had to take the Lancer back to the Q-branch garage to be re-fueled, but Allison could report her findings to her friends at the workshop.

"How'd she run, Allison?" asked Professor Cipriani upon return.

"Pretty good, but I think the Evo could stand to have an increase in boost pressure. Also, I would tweak the spring rates for quicker bounce recovery. I was already at the next turn, and the car still had not recovered completely after taking a crest. I would also stiffen the suspension, she has a serious tendency to dive under braking."

"Noted, Allison." replied Enzo, scribbling down some notes. "Anything else?"

"Nothing until I've driven the car after the changes have been made."

After a few moments' more discussion, Allison and Brian headed back to the main compound for lunch at the cafeteria. As they sat down to a lunch of lasagna and garlic bread, they were joined at their table by a rather surly-looking Michael McMillan and an unusually ashamed-looking Ike.

"Something the matter?" asked Brian.

"Well, I got my head bitten off by Ferro because this arsehead here-" Michael glared sternly at Ike, who was too cowed to make any jokes, "-couldn't keep the set of _Playboy_ magazines I gave him hidden out of view."

At this, both Allison and Brian did spit-takes.

"Now they've been confiscated, and Ferro had a long talk with me about giving Ike age-appropriate reading material."

"Well what did you expect, giving him magazines full of naked women?" said Brian.

"Mr. McMillan, with all due respect, isn't your goal with Ike to have him _avoid_ offending women's sensibilities?" queried Allison suspiciously.

"Now see, that's the problem there. While Playboy is considered adult literature, it's good reading for the articles. People just tend to focus on the T&A. It's called a 'gentleman's magazine' because it's not all naked women; it's got articles about life, how to live it, and the style in which successful men with a zest for life go about their lives. I personally believe that if he learned some thing from the articles, Ike would grow to be a man who could date any woman of his choosing, and he'd have the means to impress them as well."

"Mike, your boy isn't even thirteen yet." said Brian. "Do you really think he's going to read Playboy for the articles?"

"I'm making him do just that, especially if he doesn't want his drum set taken away and placed on the firing range with bulls-eyes on them."

"You wouldn't dare!" gasped Ike gravely.

"Try me, laddie. Now I will give you a new issue, and what I want you to do is read each and every article thoroughly. I want a detailed essay on each and every article summarizing it and writing your own thoughts on how the information in the article will help you grow as a gentleman. I want these essays in my hand at the end of the week. You have 5 days to do it, so as soon as I hand it to you, don't let Ferro or Jean see it—in fact, guard it with your life—and don't be faffing about. Are we clear?"

"Yes, sir." replied Ike meekly.

"I mean that, Issac. You will _not_ be lingering on pictures of naked women when you have essays to write, got it?"

"Yes, Michael."

"Good."

As they watched the exchange in front of them, Brian and Allison couldn't help but raise an eyebrow in confusion.

* * *

Allison was on her way back to the Q-branch garage where Brian would meet her for low-light/nighttime driving practice, which would be key to a successful extraction operation. As she went down the corridor, she passed a younger cyborg whose red hair was braided into pigtails, and most notably, was currently trudging in the direction of the gym wearing a solid-colored hockey jersey over pads and carrying her helmet, a pair of roller blades, and her hockey stick.

"Hey Marisa. Big game tonight?" asked Allison.

"Just more of the usual weekly game tonight, Allie." replied Marisa Alboreto. "You gonna watch?"

"Sorry Mari, but I can't this time. Mission training. Don't worry though, next game, I should be able to watch. Score some goals for me, will ya?"

"With pleasure."

Allison continued on outside to the Q-branch garage where Brian was already waiting with the Lancer, the changes already made and its lights running, prepared for a low-light run through the woods.

"Ready for another go?"

"I'm always ready as long as I've got a tank full of petrol and open road."

"Let's go, then."

Allison and Brian tore through the darkened woods at speed right from the get-go, a stunt that no professional would attempt the first time out in a darkened path. But Allison's eyes, like so many of her fellow cyborgs, were not limited to the parameters of human ability. She could see the road clear as day, even as it whipped by under the car in a blur. Once again, the clock registered four and a half minutes at the end of the run.

"One more, before it _really_ gets dark." said Allison. "I'm really gonna push it this time."

"I'm starting to wonder if my bowels will hold under all this fear and excitement." said Brian, his heart pounding from the last run, trying to focus on his pace notes as they sped through the dark. Fortunately, his intestinal fortitude held as Allison managed 4:25 through the course as she pushed the car to its limits before returning it to the Q-branch garage.

* * *

The run's not over yet! Keep up your speed!" shouted Brian as Allison concentrated hard on the objective ahead. At the moment, she was closing in on the open cargo bay of a C-130J Hercules transport aircraft that was rolling ahead of her at a steady pace. Allison gunned the throttle on her Lancer as she caught up with the plane and drove up its ramp, shooting into the cargo bay as she quickly stomped the brakes. Flanking the sides of the car, Kyo and Ryo secured wheel chocks onto the Lancer as they signaled a thumbs-up to Jennifer, who increased power and lifted off, barely making it in time to clear the golfing nets that represented the wooded area surrounding the field they would be extracting from. The C-130 soon leveled out as Allison and Brian unlatched themselves from their seats and exited into the main cargo bay.

"That was exciting!" said Allison, high-fiving the twins.

"Yeah, and not bad for a first run, either." said Ryo.

"I bet we can do that a little cleaner. That felt a little sloppy." said Kyo of the situation. Turning to the cockpit, he got on the intercom.

"Jennifer, is there any way for us to practice more?" asked Kyo.

"We can only use the plane once per day, so that's out of the question." replied Jennifer. "However, you're welcome to try a substitute with some sort of car carrier or something."

"Isn't that sort of risky?" asked Brian.

"Well, there's no other way to get the kind of constant practice that this part of the upcoming mission is going to need." replied Jennifer. "Plus, counting having to reduce throttle, this big girl slows down to speeds that a truck rigged with a car trailer could reasonably reach, and that turbocharged mudslinger you two will be meeting us with will be more than capable of catching up."

"So in other words, while not a perfect substitute, it'll do."

"Precisely."

Jennifer banked the bulky cargo plane towards Pratica di Mare Air Force Base for the ride back to the compound. In the back, the teens discussed the upcoming mission.

"So your EXFIL route is through the rally stage you're driving on for competition?" asked Ryo.

"Yeah, according to the briefing that Brian was given. Honestly, I can't wait to participate."

"Well don't beat them _too_ badly, Allie." said Kyo. "Otherwise, you might kill the hopes of some promising young drivers."

"No promises."

"That aside, how do you plan to do the EXFIL at night and you're being chased by hostiles? Brian won't be able to give you pace notes if he's too busy holding them off." asked Ryo.

"I'll just have to memorize the course, turn-for-turn, that's all." suggested Allison in her own defense.

"Can you really do that? The course itself is being run during the daytime, and even during your nighttime practice, Brian was still there to give pace notes. Furthermore, you'll most likely be traveling beyond just full-bore down that same path. When the adrenaline is pumping, every decision you make becomes all the more important. On a normal road, you can just find a way to evade your pursuers. But in the kind of darkness you'll be facing, and the fact that you're flying down a dirt path puts some handicaps on your skills, since there's no parallel roads or routes that you can just turn to. Out there, it'll be just you and your car against the world. You need a surefire way to remember the path you drive on so that all you have to worry about is putting your foot down and using the wheel where it counts the most."

"Yeah, but where to start..."

* * *

As the group drove back to the compound in their respective vehicles (McDonnells in the Evo, Kyo and Ryo in the Commodore, Jennifer in her Torana), Allison had some thoughts as she guided her mission vehicle down the Autostrada while Brian took a short nap in the passenger's seat. There _had_ to be a way to have a substitute for Brian's pace notes that she could fall back on. Even as a cyborg, she would be hard-pressed to remember which turns and obstacles occurred when and how fast, and how much time she would have in order to react to it all. Her thoughts were interrupted by an incoming transmission on her CB radio. It was from Jennifer, all the way at the rear of their three-car convoy.

"Hey guys, I think the Torana's plugs need cleaning. How about you folks?"

Allison grinned. Whenever she hung around with Michele and Kara, this was typically the excuse they had for going full-throttle on the Autostrada with cars such as their Aston Martin DB9 or Lamborghini Gallardo. This was the classic 'Italian Tune-up', a process used to burn up carbon buildup from the combustion chambers and exhaust system by running the engine on full load for a certain amount of time. Except in the parlance of the Section 2 petrolheads, this meant simply flooring it for an extended stretch before having to settle back down—regardless of whether the plugs actually needed clearing or not.

"Now that I think about it, so does the Evo." replied Allison. "I don't think I've calibrated the turbo enough."

"And the Commodore hasn't stretched its legs in a while." piped in Kyo. "Shall we go for it?"

"Until we hit the off-ramp, kids." said Jennifer with a rev of the engine, making the supercharger whine. "Ready? 3...2...1, Go!"

At once, all three drivers put down more throttle as their vehicles leapt forward. The needle on the Auto Meter Boost gauge to Allison's right shot up, indicating the maximum 21 PSI of boost at the moment. Brian awoke with a start in the passenger's seat as he felt the jolt of acceleration.

"Ngh—wha? Allison, what's going on?" asked Brian frantically.

"Cleaning the plugs with Jennifer and the others." she replied, not taking her eyes off the road.

"Ah, for chrissakes! That bloody Aussie is as bad as you are!"

The banshee wail of the supercharged Torana grew louder as it loomed in Allison's rearview mirror behind Kyo and Ryo's HSV Commodore. To Allison, it was a sign that she wasn't trying hard enough. She shifted up into fourth, causing the boost gauge's needle to dip momentarily before quickly scrambling back up to 21 PSI. Tapping a '+'-marked button on the in-dash mounted boost controller, she increased boost pressure to 25 PSI, giving her a bit more power and torque to play with as she began to leave the Australian V8's behind her.

"Like you're gonna get away from me..." muttered Kyo, shifting into fifth before letting the clutch out and flexing his right foot on the gas pedal. The LS1 V8 responded with a guttural roar as it put down power to the rear wheels. The big four-door leapt forward in an attempt to catch up with the Lancer, but Jennifer's Torana quickly blew past, greedily seeking the rally-tuned mud-stomper ahead.

"That's Jennifer for ya." noted Ryo. "Can't pass up a challenge."

"Meanwhile, this thing doesn't seem to pose much of a threat." noted Kyo.

"That's 'cause last time I checked, this thing is still stock. A trip to Q-branch ought to fix that. For now, this battle is pretty much between those two."

Up ahead, Allison found Jennifer hounding her in her rearview mirror. Jennifer shifted up into fourth and floored it again, the tires chirping as she accelerated. The Torana accelerated and shot well past Allison, and for a bit, it seemed as if Jennifer was going to run away with the race. Not according to Allison, however.

"_So long, farewell, Auf wiedersehen, goodbye~!_" sang Allison as she shifted into fifth gear. Gaining power again, the turbocharger gave Allison the top-end power she needed to breeze past Jennifer's Torana, pulling down her eyelid and sticking out her tongue as she passed the Australian by. Jennifer shook her head with a smile. While the Torana had a lot of grunt under the hood, she lacked the gearing to leave Allison behind, as the Torana only had four speeds. In addition, the car was still comparatively heavier next to Allison's, and the supercharger was only good for low to mid-range torque, but could do nothing at the top end of things. This was her loss, but she was still confident that she could school Allison in the future when it came to real horsepower.

* * *

After acting like hooligans on the Autostrada, the three cars soon pulled in at subdued pace into the Section 2 parking lot. Jennifer and Kyo waved Allison off as she went to bring the Evo back to Q-branch.

No sooner had Allison pulled in with the Evo and gotten out to hang up the keys when a somewhat high-pitched shout from the other end of the workshop attracted her attention.

"Allison! Allisooooon!"

A slightly mousy-looking black-haired young woman wearing rectangular-framed glasses and a lab coat two sizes too large came sprinting towards Allison and Brian and skidded to a stop, almost sliding on the polished floor and falling. Hands on her knees, the woman (or girl, based on her looks and size) gasped for breath.

"Miss Loreto, are you all right? What's going on?" asked Allison worriedly. The Q-branch worker raised her head to reveal an expression of annoyance.

"I told you, you can just call me Fiona!" pouted Fiona Loreto, 24. The Q-branch technician was a young newcomer to the staff of Section 2, but as a recent MIT graduate after spending time studying in the United States under an exchange program, Fiona was easily as brainy as Professor Cipriani, who was almost twice her age and with more experience. Fiona loved being part of the cutting edge of technology, but meeting Allison in recent years also unlocked her hidden petrolhead side. Despite the age gap, Fiona and Allison were very good friends, and Fiona's physical appearance often made people mistake her for a teenager rather than a young adult professional.

"Anyway, I have the greatest idea ever for the ultimate sleeper car!"

"Really now? Do tell." said Allison, waving Brian off. The elder McDonnell nodded, knowing his sister would be a while.

All right, the base car is going to be a Mini Cooper S—the classic, not the one owned by BMW..."

"Right..."

"But! We stick a twin-cam engine in there!"

"Go on..."

"And then, after we tweak the suspension..."

"Yes?"

"We _twincharge_ the sonofabitch!"

"I think... I think I just had a crisis..." replied the brunette in jest.

"Well that only means we gotta build it, don't we? How soon can you get started?"

Allison shook her head. "It can't be tomorrow or the next couple of days. I'm in the middle of training for my next mission."

"Oh..." sulked Fiona, deflating. "Well then, what am I gonna do without you to help me build it?"

Just sit on the project until I'm done the mission, then we can put all our attention on building the Mini. How about the Formula SAE racer?"

"The brakes are working fine on it, and she corners like a housefly. All that's left is instrumentation and body covering by you guys."

"Thats good. We can finish that up in the next class and then take her out for a run."

"Have a name for this project yet?" asked Fiona.

"I'm thinking I'll call her 'Tempest Zero-One'." replied Allison, thinking of a creative description.

"Sounds more like a call-sign, but I like it." said Fiona. "So what about the Lancer? How's it treating you?"

Allison made a glance at the car beside her before replying. "It's all down to me, now. She's as balanced as she can be for the sort of driving I'll be doing; the only missing bit is me pushing the limit entirely. Practice helps, but I will really have to give it my all when Brian and I head up for the rally."

"Speaking of which, where is it, again?" inquired Fiona.

"In a small place called Rivalba, up north. The rally is really more of an in for us while the true purpose is to extract someone from Section One..."

While Allison chatted with Fiona, Brian lay atop the hood of his RS6, smoking his occasional Camel Turkish Jade. He was in no mood to leave yet, especially since he hadn't bid his younger half a good night, as courtesy called for. Looking up at the evening sky, he watched the stars twinkle for a few seconds before closing his eyes for a bit, allowing his moment of solitude to take him back, back to places he'd wanted to put behind him. Places like MSR Tampa, AKA 'Route Irish' on a 'Bloody Sunday' of his own back in April of 2003.

* * *

"_Liberty, this is Hedgehog Convoy, requesting immediate assistance; we are under attack! Repeat, Hedgehog Convoy is under attack along Main Supply Route Tampa, over!"_

"_Hedgehog Convoy, this is Liberty. Say again, what is your location, over?"_

"_Tompkins, forget the fucking radio and put down cover fire, we need to get off the 'X' now!" Brian yelled, pouring bursts of rounds from his M4A1 out the window._

"_McDonnell, we need help! We're fucking stranded out here!" Tompkins yelled back. "Covington, any luck with the engine?"_

"_I think I almost got it! It should fire on the next tr-"_

_A lone round streaked through the bullet-resistant glass and impacted the driver's left temple. A fountain of crimson erupted from the entry wound as Covington slumped to his right, his twitching, juddering form falling in Tompkins' lap. The blood continued to spray, covering the interior of their disabled Mercedes-Benz S500, landing on every possible surface—carpets, dashboard, wood paneling, windows, weapons, and even the faces of Brian and Tompkins. Ignoring the sudden loss of their driver, Brian swung left and let fly more rounds from his M4 before the bolt locked back. Going to his vest to place in a fresh magazine, Brian panicked as he found none—the magazine in his M4 was his last._

"_Shit!" swore the Irishman, dropping his M4 onto the bloodied floor and reaching up front, yanking Covington's MP5 from his freshly-killed corpse. He swore again as he tried to fire before making the weapon ready, yanking back the cocking bolt and slapping it down again. Aiming the submachine gun haphazardly out the spiderwebbed window, he let loose with the weapon on fully-automatic, firing in bursts. Up front, Tompkins was still trying to raise those lousy Yanks just up the road from them. Where the hell was their backup?_

_Return fire sought its vengeance on Brian as a loose AK round zipped through his shoulder, throwing off his aim. Gritting his teeth with the effort, he kept firing with his good arm until time came to change mags. Rather than try to reach up front and struggle with Covington's vest, Brian simply dropped the weapon and tore his sidearm—A company-issue Glock 17—from its holster and started popping 9mm rounds out the window. He was losing strength with each pull of the trigger. Brian was putting much of his effort into staying conscious, but as the new sound of thundering fifty-caliber machine guns approached, everything was beginning to go hazy, and the last thing he saw was Desert MARPAT camouflage and he felt a set of arms dragging him out of the car before darkness claimed his sight, gunshots beginning to fade to silence in his ears._

* * *

"Evening, Brian." greeted a new voice, snapping Brian out of his chaotic memories. Brian craned his head up to see an older man in a finely-tailored Armani suit.

"Hey Michele." greeted Brian to Kara's handler. "Heading home?"

"Indeed. How was practice today?" asked Michele, striding over to his Lamborghini Gallardo Spyder, parked next to Brian's RS6.

"Well, it's not everyday that I ride shotgun while driving up a ramp into a moving cargo plane, I can tell you that much. Chalk up another batch of grays to my 'sister'."

"For all the stress though, it's worth it, right?" asked Michele, leaning against his Gallardo. "Life with Allison, that is?"

"I suppose." replied Brian with a smile that faded somewhat. "Certainly, I've had closer brushes with death that make me wish Allison had come into my life earlier."

"Mind if I ask for an example?"

"Not at all. In fact, before you came out, I was just thinking of one now. You know I used to be in the private sector, right? Blackwater, Triple Canopy, and their lot?"

"Yes?"

"One of my more pucker-inducing moments had to be an April Sunday in Iraq. My convoy was ambushed along Route Irish."

"I've heard stories about that place, most of them bad." noted Michele.

"And mine was one of them. The car with the principle got away to the Yanks' Camp Liberty, but it all started when the lead got toasted by an IED; no survivors. I was in the rear car, and we'd had our engine disabled—don't know how, since the damn car was supposed to be bulletproof. Me and two other guys trying to get out of there alive. My mate Tompkins was trying to raise those wax-eared yobs over at Camp Liberty, Covington was trying to restart the engine, and I was busy trying to shoot those bastard Hadjis. Covington almost had us going again, but we lost him on his next try—got zapped in the head. I was out of ammo for my M4, so I kept shooting using his MP5, but then I got hit in the shoulder. MP5 ran dry, was down to me Glock, which more desperate men would turn onto themselves at that point; I got shot in the shoulder and I'm bleeding out and ready to die when the Americans finally show up."

"What happened after that?" asked Michele.

"They patched me up and sent me back out. Excalibur had a 'No Whining' policy. If you could still shoot, they sent you back into rotation as soon as you were ready to go again." concluded Brian with a smirk. "Good policy, kept my mind on the money. Not the best way to live, though..."

"Well certainly, there was a lot of risk involved, but then again, how is that any different from what we do now?"

"Different payment policies, I suppose." replied Brian. "Do you know how much they paid me to get shot at? €465 Euros a day."

"And we get paid €300 a day here." noted Michele. "Not so big a difference, is it?"

"Actually, I wish I had that extra €165 a day back. Allison has expensive hobbies."

"And you support them because you love her." concluded Michele with a smile.

"You're right about that, but I can't spoil her the way you do for Kara." replied Brian as he glanced at his watch. "Anyhow, I'm going to stay a little longer so that I can say good night to Allison. See you in the morning, I suppose."

"Take care, Brian." said Michele with a wave. The elder man got into the driver's seat of his Lamborghini, and with a rev of the V-10, he pulled out of the parking lot and made his way to the gates. Soon, Michele's Lamborghini faded to little more than glowing red taillights in the darkness.

Minutes later, Allison came to the parking lot to meet with Brian.

"Fiona talk your ear off again?" asked Brian, flicking the remnants of his Camel away.

"Another project idea, naturally." replied Allison. "We're gonna hot up a classic Mini and make it the ultimate sleeper car!"

"A Mini, huh? Well, I sure hope it won't cost the Agency." said Brian. Allison and her sisters didn't gain a second chance for free; millions of Euros were invested in the very technology keeping the girls alive and fighting fit, not to mention food, lodging, medication, and other logistical expenses. The last thing he wanted to do was allow his sister to be involved in trivial usage of taxpayers' money by building a car on the SWA's dime.

"If this weren't a rescue mission, I certainly would be more likely to shoulder the cost—or rather, 'ex-Padanians' would shoulder the cost of this project." replied Allison with a smirk that caused Brian to frown.

"Looting dead bodies is not an honest way to make money, even if the people it belonged to are terrorists." chided Brian. "If you're not careful, that's going to become a habit."

"Well, if we could be trusted to hold down part-time jobs, I wouldn't have to resort to looting." shot back Allison.

"Can't you just dial back your spending? That's really a better solution." replied Brian.

"I'm a petrolhead, Brian. I always want to make my cars go that much faster, and I'll always be that way."

Brian sighed and shook his head. It would be easier to reign in Allison with an increased conditioning regimen, but it was not something he could bring himself to do. He cared for Allison the way he cared for family. To take away that admittedly bothersome impulse for Allison to sink money into her cars would take away a part of whom she really was. In addition, Brian wanted Allison to live the fullest life she could, no easy task considering she was already living on borrowed time, most of it consumed by missions to even out her cost-per-kill ratio.

"Well then, 'Miss Petrolhead', you need to get to bed. You've got more training to do tomorrow, and you still need to read 'The Stranger'. What do you think about it, by the way?"

"Well, so far, it's kind of... 'eh'. I can read it fair and well enough, but some parts, it drags on, especially regarding the narrator's mum's funeral."

"Don't worry, it'll go by quick, Allison." Brian assured. "Well, I better get going. See you in the morning, kiddo."

"Good night, Brian." said Allison, hugging her handler. Brian smiled and ruffled her hair as he hugged her in return.

"Good night, Allison. Sleep well."

Brian turned to get inside his RS6 and started the engine while Allison made her way back to the dorm. As he turned on the his headlights, he pulled out of his space and tapped the horn. Allison turned to look at Brian and waved goodbye as he did likewise. She watched the red Audi waft towards the gate before she turned to go back to the dorm.

"So how'd things go today?" asked Petra as Allison came back from her evening shower.

"Fairly well. I mounted the plane on the first try. Cleaned the plugs on our way back with the twins and Ms. Fitzgibbons." replied Allison as she climbed into bed.

"Oh, more of that again, I see? You know, Kara and Mr. Pagani are really rubbing off on you." said Petra as she got into her bunk.

"Can't say I don't like it." said Allison. "Every time I hang out with them, I could swear that my right foot gets a bit heavier."

"Excuses, excuses..." said Petra as she pulled the covers over herself. "Good night."

"You too."

* * *

While Allison and Petra went to bed, Brian was arriving at his single-bedroom flat in Rome. Ascending the stairs and unlocking the door, Brian was quickly swarmed by his three other roommates.

"I'm back, guys. Did ya miss me?"

Barking happily at his feet were his four legged friends—Stirling the Boston Terrier, Colin the Pembroke Welsh Corgi, and Jackie the Jack Russell Terrier. As they yipped about at his feet excitedly, Brian smiled as he slowly made his way to the kitchen while trying to avoid his rambunctious pets, who were busy making a racket celebrating their master's arrival.

"All right, all right, you'll get your supper, just wait." said Brian patiently to his dogs, still running about frantically as he pulled a plastic container from the fridge. The meal wasn't anything special—beef and some vegetables in gravy. Yet the moment he opened the lid, the McDonnell dogs quickly sat patiently abreast in line as Brian went about heating up their supper to warmer temperatures, and they calmly approached their dishes when Brian finally served it to them.

Though not to the extent that Allison did, Brian had a love of cars and racing all his own. His dogs were named after three racing greats: his Corgi was named for the late Colin McRae, of whom Brian was a great fan, and his Boston Terrier and Jack Russell were named after Formula One greats Jackie Stewart and Stirling Moss, the only difference being that 'Jackie' was female while her namesake was male.

As the little group ate their dinners in peace, Brian flicked on the high-definition television in the living room from the kitchen. Rather than concern himself with the usual news about Italy's state of civil turmoil (of which he already got enough at work), Brian's TV was almost always tuned to BBC Two, and he had just turned on the television in time for this week's episode of _Top Gear_. Presenter Jeremy Clarkson's voice narrated what was up ahead for the next hour.

"_Tonight: Richard Hammond runs from the rozzers in a muscle car... Captain Slow arranges his spanners for pit crew duty... and we drive supercars in a tunnel—upside-down."_

His interest piqued, Brian turned up the volume. He would later fall asleep on the couch accompanied by his faithful companions.

* * *

Meanwhile, back at the Section 2 compound, things were a little different. Allison's mind brought her into a strange dream:

_Allison found herself in a forest, driving her Delta along a misty, twisty road, attacking the corners in the manner she was accustomed to, balancing precision, power and grace. As she carved her way through the seemingly-endless road, a pair of headlights broke through the fog that occupied her rearview mirror. Allison eased up on the gas to see what it was, and for that brief second, the newcomer broke out of the fog driving a Pearlescent Lime Green Caterham Roadsport SV with two yellow-orange racing stripes down its center._

_The Caterham flashed its headlights twice, and Allison frowned. Whoever was behind her was rudely passing her off as a slow driver. Allison responded by shifting up and giving the engine more gas to attempt leaving the Caterham in the wake of her Lancia. The speedometer climbed from 50 mph to 70 in a matter of seconds as the Delta was pushed closer to its tires' gripping limit as it sped through the winding road in the foggy low-visibility conditions. After a few turns, Allison glanced in her rearview mirror. Surely, that would show that Caterham driver that Allison McDonnell was no pushover!_

_Much to her shocked countenance, Allison found the Caterham bearing down on her, the 1.8-liter Rover K-series engine roaring in her ears. Allison went up another gear and mashed the gas pedal, willing her rally-bred hatchback to go faster. However, the Caterham only got closer and closer, and as Allison was forced to slow down to prepare for the corner ahead, the Caterham shot past her, and a brief flash of red from its taillights was all the warning Allison had before she helplessly watched the Caterham slide its rear wheels into the turn, performing a flawless four-wheel drift around the hairpin up ahead. The tail of the Caterham disappeared around the fog of the 180° corner, and as soon as Allison rounded it not a second after, all she was met with was the fog and darkness of the winding road, nothing to indicate that the Caterham's driver had made a fatal mistake. It was simply gone, having disappeared into the great unknown._

* * *

The next day would see many of the Generation 2's in Hilshire's Literature Class. Kara stood as she read a passage from Albert Camus' _The Stranger:_

"_The scorching blade slashed at my eyelashes and stabbed at my stinging eyes. That's when everything began to reel. The sea carried up a thick, fiery breath. It seemed to me as if the sky split open from one end to the other to rain down fire. My whole being tensed and I squeezed my hand around the revolver. The trigger gave; I felt the smooth underside of the butt; and there, in that noise, sharp and deafening at the same time, is where it all started. I shook off the sweat and sun. __I knew that I had shattered the harmony of the day, the exceptional silence of a beach where I'd been happy. Then I fired __four more times at the motionless body where the bullets lodged without leaving a trace. And it was like knocking four quick times on the door of unhappiness."_

"Very good, Miss Pagani. You may be seated." said Hilshire as Kara nodded and sat back in her seat. "So, class. Based on what the book has described, how much of a turning point has this become?"

Jay raised his hand, and Hilshire pointed to him. "Well, up to this point, Meursault has been pretty content with his life. I'm guessing he's going to get arrested or something like that, though this is colonial Algeria..."

As Jay continued his input, Allison paid little attention, reflecting on the dream she'd had the previous night. Something about that dream was off. For no apparent reason, seeing that Caterham gave her a strange sense of deja vu, but it wasn't as if she could readily put her finger on it. That Caterham had a familiar presence to it, if only she could remember where from...

Allison was brought from her thoughts when a whiteboard dry eraser smacked her head. Allison looked up to see Hilshire down below, tossing a capped dry-erase marker up and down in his hand.

"I see you've finally decided to join us, Miss McDonnell." stated Hilshire with curt sarcasm. "Pray tell, how is the shooting of the Arab man going to affect Meursault's life?"

"Uhm... he's going to jail?" Allison answered in question.

"Mr. Valentine has already stated that. Is there more you can add to that, aside from the obvious?"

"Well, er..."

Hilshire sighed. "Miss McDonnell, I implore you, please pay more attention in class." He turned to go back to the board when Allison made an outburst.

"Wait! I wasn't finished!"

Hilshire spun on his heel and faced Allison. "You weren't? Then perhaps you can contribute a useful observation?"

"Yes." affirmed Allison, starting to go into B.S. Mode. "Meursault is not a man controlled by emotions; he's by nature an existentialist. It cannot, therefore, be truthfully said at this trial that this was crime of passion. All he cares about are his own physical needs and desires and how to satisfy them. He didn't shoot the Arab because he feared for his life. If anything, he only shot the man because he was starting to get bothered by the sun."

Allison waited as Hilshire mulled over what she had said, hoping he would buy it.

"Hm, fair enough, that's certainly correct." replied Hilshire to Allison's surprise (which she did her best to hide). "Meursault doesn't divulge anything about his emotions or any specific reason as to why he shot the Arab with the knife, only that he was bothered by the heat and bright sunlight. Good to see that you do analyze the text, Allison. You may sit down now."

Allison did as told, and the moment she sat down, Hilshire continued with his lecture. Allison leaned over to Kara and spoke in a low voice.

"I can't believe he bought that. That was a complete shot in the dark." said Allison.

"I certainly can." replied Kara.

"How?" asked Allison in bewilderment.

"Sparknotes." replied Kara with a smile.

"That's just cheap."

* * *

With the blow of a whistle, Allison, Kara, Chiara, and Silvia leapt from their starting blocks into the 25-meter swimming pool in front of them, mid-air streamlining (arms over and behind head forming an arrowhead, legs and feet close together, toes pointed) allowing them to spear the water rather than bomb into it and create a huge splash in their respective lanes. After the weight of their heavier bodies gave them momentum through the water (mixed with precise amounts of salt by Q-branch to increase buoyancy) for a few seconds, the four broke to the surface and began propelling themselves across to the shallow end using the butterfly stroke as their classmates cheered them on. Allison's butterfly stroke was one of her best, and it showed as she pulled into the lead going into her first turn at the shallow end, performing an open turn with fingertips touching the wall as she sucked in her feet and then pushed off, going into her less-proficient backstroke. Chiara and Silvia pulled forward here, Kara leaving Allison as well. At the pool flags 5 meters away from the wall, Allison took five drawn-out strokes before turning over, flutter-kicking furiously and then diving down headfirst into a flip turn, pushing off with her feet into a streamlined position as she began performing the breaststroke, doing her best to glide efficiently by streamlining as she frog-kicked after pushing through the water with her arms as she popped up her head to take a breath.

At the shallow end, just as Chiara and Silvia had propelled themselves off the walls, Allison made another open turn and exploded off of the wall in a streamline while flutter-kicking furiously. As she broke to the surface, she took a breath and began paddling her arms in the freestyle stroke, taking a breath every six strokes, popping only half her face above the surface as she did so. She kept pulling herself through the water until she reached the end, where her hands came in contact with a touch-sensitive pad on the wall of the pool as Ryo sprang from the starting block above her, shooting into the surface of the now-roiling pool like a torpedo from an anti-submarine aircraft. Allison clambered out of the water, pulling herself from the pool with a steady grip on the pool gutter. As soon as she peeled her goggles off, Allison glanced at the lap timer board. Her 100-meter Individual Medley performance netted her an overall time of 1:21.45. Chiara and Silvia's times were much faster, at 1:15.00 and 1:16.00, respectively. Kara was also faster overall compared to Allison with a time of 1:19.57, about a second or so faster than what the younger McDonnell could accomplish.

About a minute later, each group was down to their 'anchor' as Triela, Marisa, Johanneke, and Becky dove into the water to finish off the relay. While Marisa was an adept swimmer, Johanneke combined both skill and athleticism as she left the other swimmers in her wake, getting into and out of the turns much faster than the other girls in the pool, and struck home on the timer pad seconds well ahead of her competitors. Marisa came in second, Triela third, and bringing up the rear was Becky. Despite Allison's less than stellar performance, Johanneke had picked up the slack extremely well, netting their group an overall time of 5 minutes flat, comparable to most Olympic teams performing the same task. Hence the low probability of any Section 2 cyborg competing on the Italian Olympic team—it would draw far too much suspicion.

Johanneke received high-fives from Allison, Annette, and Ryo while the others' groups graciously admitted to being bested, though Marisa noisily challenged the Afrikaner to a one-on-one rematch. As they dove into the water, Becky peeled off her latex swimming cap and looked at the lap time board (which resembled the _Top Gear_ Power Lap board due to Allison's meddling) with some frustration.

"I can't seem to keep up with _any_ of you people! I've tried every darned trick in the book, but I'm still slower than everyone else! What's holding me back?" huffed the cowgirl angrily.

The other girls quickly turned away with some embarrassment. The answer was right in front of them, barely held in by the material of the standard-issue Speedo racerback swimsuits they all used, but envy or sheer prudery prevented them from answering—that is, except for one of the girls.

"Well, I have a theory on that, honey," a blonde cyborg with a mischievious look in her eyes declared as she stepped up behind Becky and slipped her arms over the other girl's shoulders. "You see-" she ran a hand up the smooth expanse of the other girl's spandex-clad stomach "-you've got all this extra drag here."

Without warning the blonde cyborg grabbed a hold of Becky's left breast, prompting a squeal of surprise from its owner.

"Ack! Gina!"

Gina frowned as she grabbed a hold of Becky's other breast with her spare hand.

"Wow, so either the surgeons on the medical team are really good or these actually _are_ real," she noted in surprise.

"Gina, stop that!" Becky protested, a furious blush rising to her cheeks. Gina smiled evilly.

"Stop what, Becky dear?" she enquired.

"Stop groping me –ack!" Becky squealed as Gina's hands began to toy with her chest.

"Mmm? What was that, honey? I didn't quite catch what you were saying."

"Gina, stop touching her!" Allison protested as she tried not to be embarrassed by what she was seeing. She was worried the boys in their locker room right across from the theirs might hear them, but that was evidently not a concern shared by Gina, since she responded by grinning even more than she already was.

"Oh? Are you feeling left out, Allison dear? Don't worry, I can spare some attention for you too. Just give me a little more time to finish up with Becky here, okay?"

Inside the locker room, the boys were already pressing their ears against the wooden door, their upcoming turn in the pool forgotten as they listened to the events that were unfolding outside. Only Jay seemed uncomfortable with the whole thing, doing his best to ignore what to the others were a very sexy turn of events.

"Guys, we really shouldn't be eavesdropping..." said Jay worriedly, his face already flushed pink from embarrassment.

"Shhh! There's more!" said Ike, pressing his ear further against the door. If he leaned harder, he would bring it down.

"G-Gina-Agh!... Plea-ooh!... please...stop it already..." whined Becky in protest, weakening against Gina's ministrations, which to her horror began to feel _pleasurable_.

"Gina, enough!" yelled Johanneke, trying to avert her eyes from the display in front of her. Her words fell on deaf ears, however, since once Gina had decided she found something fun it was very difficult to get her to stop doing it. Poor Becky might have had to endure her fellow cyborg's ministrations for quite some time had it not been for the sound of a loud thud from the boys' locker room.

"Matthew! Matt, are you all right?" asked Scott's voice. "Answer me, dammit!"

"It's no good, mate!" the girls heard Ike reply. "Poor bugger's passed out!"

"I told him he shouldn't have tried to peek!" complained Jay vocally. "But nobody ever listens to me—Oh, shit."

Now aware that they were being spied on, the girls' attention turned their attention to the boys' locker room, and Becky took the opportunity to make her escape from Gina. The blonde cyborg looked like she was going to make an attempt to recapture her, but the air around her erupted with shrieks of indignation and scandal before she could do so.

"Perverts!" shouted Ryo off the bat.

"Lechers!" followed Triela.

"Ewww, gross!" shrieked Marisa from the pool.

"Damnit," Gina pouted as her chance for some fun slipped away from her.

The girls continued to raise a cacophony until sharp whistle blasts from Ferro broke it all up.

"Both groups, to your lockers—NOW!"

* * *

After a stern talking-to by Ferro—which led to indefinite _daily_ pool-cleaning duty for Gina and Matthew—Engineering and Shop Class passed by in awkward silence. Lunch passed in much the same fashion, and it was only in the free time afterwards that Allison could concentrate on something other than the tension that mounted after the whole incident at the pool. Instead, she was now free to concentrate on choking down her rising fear as she held a death grip on the steering wheel as she prepared to chase after the 18-wheel car carrier she would be using for boarding practice.

Allison and articulated lorries (also called Semi-trucks, tractor trailers, big rigs, etc.) never mixed well. In her former life as Shelby Mercer, Allison had always been nervous around these hulking workhorses of the road, and it had been one of these massive machines that was responsible for taking her family from her and nearly ending her own life. As cyborgs had a tendency to have a particular quirk carried over from their previous life, Allison was no different—she was magic behind the wheel of any respectable car, and could even make cheaper cars do the impossible. However, her fear of massive trucks also carried over to this life. The first time she drove on the Autostrada with Brian en route to a mission objective, she had been startled by an air horn coming from behind her, and as she looked to her left, she saw a MAN 18-wheeler looming in the next lane. Her most immediate reaction was to floor the gas pedal and get the hell out of there before reaching into the space between her seat and the center console for her Kimber. Brian quickly reacted, snatching the weapon out of her hand and forcing her to pull over to the side of the road. Immediately after following his orders, Allison exited the Lancia and vomited over the concrete barrier on the shoulder. The result of this incident was an immediate recommendation by Jean for Allison to be re-conditioned, but Brian firmly opposed that decision, adamant that any further conditioning would make Allison a far less effective asset. Since then, the two have worked together to lessen Allison's fear of the vehicles she would inevitably have to share the road with. Secretly, this was also part of the reason Allison liked taking back roads as opposed to the busier Autostradas—because she would be less likely to encounter a lorry while zipping around the mountain roads.

Now, however, she had to deal with what she feared most. It had to be done, if she would get any practice boarding a moving target. But as she approached the dirty car trailer that was in need of a wash, for a split second, the ramps on which cars would rest transformed into metallic teeth waiting to chew up Allison's Lancer with her still inside, a ravenous monster whose jaws opened and closed in robotic fashion, the dirt now turning into dried blood, and with every inch closer that Allison got to the trailer, the jaws of doom only worked faster and faster, as if to match Allison's quickening pulse. Just as she began to catch up with the trailer, Allison hesitated and shook her head. She then keyed the microphone on her headset.

"Guys, I'm sorry. Can you bring it around and we'll try again?"

"Copy, Allison. But you have to commit on this next pass, we're burning daylight." radioed Kyo as he motioned to Jennifer. The Australian nodded and brought the 18-wheeler into a wide u-turn. Allison instinctively steered well clear of the 18-wheeler headed her way. As it blew past her, Allison trailed it with her eyes for a split second before stomping on the gas pedal, rocketing forward, and then cranked the wheel left as she yanked the handbrake, making a rapid 180-degree u-turn, known in some circles as 'flipping a bitch.' As soon as the Lancer was facing the other way, Allison slid the gear lever into first and gunned the throttle, chirping the tires as she took off. The tachometer climbed, quickly reaching the redline, and she clutched in aggressively, shifting into second, and then third as she began to catch up with the trailer. Going into fourth, the nose of the Lancer hovered above the wheeled loading ramp, and with a further push of the accelerator, the front wheels grabbed the checkering of the ramps, and Allison was quickly on the truck, applying the handbrake and neutral gear. Kyo and Ryo leapt in to anchor the wheels, and after a few seconds' hold, Jennifer slowed down the truck as she circled around, and Allison was quickly untethered from the truck as she let the Lancer Evo roll off, bringing the vehicle to a rolling stop as she let the car coast in neutral.

They repeated the procedure twice more before night began to fall, and the real challenge would begin.

* * *

"Allison, you better push it, luv! I can already make out the print on the landing gears!"

"I know, I know! I'm trying to get through these last few corners!"

Another night drive session was in order, but this time, the McDonnell and Fitzgibbons teams were trying to rehearse the very stunt they would attempt in order to extract a Section One asset in the dead of night. At the moment, however, Allison's frustration boiled like an unattended teakettle as she continued to lose synchronity with the C-130 she was supposed to be driving into, as it began to descend closer to the field before she could even get there. As she reached the end of the rally stage and burst into the open field, the C-130 was already well ahead, and as the Evo desperately tried to catch up, the C-130 quickly ran out of room just as Allison's rally car began to close in, the ramp lifting off of the grass as it flew over the golf nets. Allison yanked the handbrake and brought the Lancer to a skidding stop, turfing up the grass as she did so. Allison got out of the driver's seat and stared at the retreating tail of the C-130 before turfing up the grass even more with her own foot in anger.

"Goddammit! I was so fucking close!"

"Allison, relax. You'll get it tomorrow, we still have some time to practice." said Brian, doing his best to console her.

"I was completely out of sync with the others, Brian! That's not a mistake I can afford to make!" cried Allison in frustration.

"That's why this is _practice_, lass. Better that you make the mistake here and correct it than deal with it during the mission. Look, I'm sure something will come to you. You're resourceful enough to come up with solutions to all your problems; you just need time."

"Yes, but how _much_?" wondered Allison, looking at the evening sky.

* * *

The solution to her problem finally came in the midst of Literature class the next day.

"COREOGRAPHY!" she blurted out, causing Hilshire to stop writing letters on the whiteboard.

"That's... correct, Allison." said Hilshire, writing out the word's letters on blanks drawn on the board under a picture of a gallows. "That's the answer to this week's 'vocabulary hangman,' well done."

As Hilshire turned to the board again to erase the diagram and start a new game, Kara leaned over to Allison.

"What was that all about?"

"I've realized how I would solve my problem with navigating the rally stage in my mission with the Fitzgibbons Fratello." replied Allison. "The key to maintaining sync is coreography! If I can time everything down to the second, I shouldn't have any problems speeding through the rally stage to the exfil point whereupon I can drive right into the Fitzgibbons' C-130 and bid goodbye to any Padania guys busy choking on my dust."

"How are you going to accomplish your 'coreography'?" asked Kara, bearing some doubts to the validity of Allison's strategy.

"I've got an idea..."

That afternoon, before heading to Q-branch to pick up the Lancer, Allison flipped through her CD collection until she found her _The Matrix Reloaded: The Album_ disc. Upon doing so, she cross-referenced its availability with her Sansa Fuze MP3 player, and upon confirming its digital presence, she selected the track she wanted to play but placed the media player on 'hold' mode as she tucked it into her cargo vest pocket before leaving the room.

Later, Allison pulled up to the start of the practice course, Brian in the passenger's seat with the still-simplified pace notes. both of them had their helmets on and in-car intercoms online as Professor Cipriani manned the staging lights. with a nod from Allison, Cipriani pressed a button, and the lights ticked down from red to yellow, and Allison built up revs as she held the clutch in, shifting into first. Then, as soon as the light was green, she smoothly let out the clutch at around 3500rpm. All four wheels chirped, finding traction on the small patch of tarmac before the Lancer charged into the dirt path. Brian was already rattling off pace notes:

"Hard left into jump then easy right into dip then over crest to straight-"

However, Allison was only half-listening. The constant practice already burned the pace notes into her head. Instead, she was re-mapping the entire course in her memory, timing each turn, bump, dip, and jump to the synth beat of Juno Reactor's _Mona Lisa Overdrive_ playing away in her left ear. At present, the role Allison was playing was less rally driver and more coreographer for a ballet, and the Lancer Evolution she controlled was _Prima Ballerina_ learning when to glide, pirouette, and jump based on the commands of her young coach.

Halfway through the course, Allison could already see the mission scenario: The Section One flunky would be wisely hugging the floor in the back as bullets whiz by the car. Brian would be popping carbine or SMG rounds out the window at relentless pursuers driving vehicles ill-suited to the slippery terrain. The Fitzgibbons' C-130 would soon come in, providing a distracting surprise for the Padania that would simply allow Allison to better leave them choking on her dust.

By the time four minutes, twenty-five seconds had elapsed, Allison was already gunning the Lancer out of the rally stage like a bat out of hell into the EXFIL field, and she victoriously yanked the handbrake, putting the rally-tuned 4WD in a lurid, sliding stop.

"Well done, Allison. That sure _felt_ faster than most of our previous runs." complimented Brian to a beaming Allison.

"What do you mean, 'felt'?" replied Allison. "That _had_ to be faster than last time!"

"Still around 4:25, Allie. But I'm sure once you face the other racers there, you'll get a little extra boost in terms of determination."

"Bring 'em on." said Allison, opening the door and gazing at the setting sun. "Bring on the mission and bring on the competition, I'm _so_ ready for this!"


	6. Pace Notes Part 2

**Tire Tracks and Spent Casings**

**A Gunslinger Girl Fanfic by MP5**

Disclaimer: Gunslinger Girl is the property of Yu Aida. All trademarks featured herein are copyright their respective owners. Allison, Brian, Jennifer, Kyo, and Ryo as well as other original characters herein are property of MP5 unless otherwise noted.

**Chapter 6: Pace Notes (Part 2)**

"I don't think I'm ready for this." said Allison nervously as she and Brian arrived at the staging area of the _Concorso di Rivalba_ amateur rally's practice round. Everywhere she looked, Allison could spot cars with loads of sponsoring, looking far from amateur and more at home in the World Rally Championship series. In contrast, her rather plain Lancer Evolution VI stuck out like a sore thumb.

As Allison drove past the other racers, she could feel the stares of the more hostile racers boring into her, and it was making her uncomfortable.

"Brian... I don't think these guys like me very much." said Allison meekly.

"Just relax, lass. you know what you're doing, despite what others may think. And this is just a practice run-which you've already repeated a thousand times back at the compound."

"But look at these guys and their cars! They're so... serious!"

"Anyone can _look_ serious with a bunch of sponsor stickers on their car. It takes skill and craftsmanship to _be_ serious in rallying, and you have both of those attributes in spades."

Allison quietly blushed at Brian's compliment as she continued to find her pit area. Finally, an official flagged them down to a spot marked "O'BRIEN-WELLINGTON," the same names that were printed on the window of their Lancer. As Allison pulled in and shut the car off, she was greeted by a female race official, who spoke very good English.

"Welcome to the _Concorso Di Rivalba_, Signor Wellington, Signorina O'Brien. I'm your Pit Marshal, Bianca!" greeted the cheery blonde.

"Thank you, Signorina Bianca. And please, call me Madison." replied Allison, using her alias.

"I'm Connor." said Brian. "It's nice to meet you, Signorina Bianca."

"The pleasure's all mine! I must say, it is rare for international visitors to come to this rally. Are you two here on holiday?" asked Bianca.

"It's a hobby of ours." said 'Madison.' "Connor and I have been doing this for about... two years, now?"

"That's right, luv." replied 'Connor', placing his arm around Madison's waist, causing the brunette to blush and smile.

"Oh, you are a couple! How lovely!" gushed Bianca. "And you've spent two years rallying together? That's amazing! But just so you know, I've actually heard stories of men and women who came to this rally as couples and left the rally separately."

"Perhaps that might be because it was always the man in the relationship driving." said Connor. "I, on the other hand, am a proponent of female drivers." he noted, eliciting a chuckle from Bianca.

"He just says that because he keeps getting into fender-benders. Him and his self-deprecating humor." said Madison with a grin. "Anyway, when does practice start?"

"In about half an hour, actually. Is it just the two of you as a team, or do you have a support crew?"

"Our support crew should be coming shortly, actually-ah, here they are now!"

The three looked up the road that the staging area was set up around to find a Toyota Hilux pickup truck towing a fairly large racing trailer occupied by a certain sandy-haired Australian and two Japanese twins. As it pulled up to the O'Brien-Wellington pit area, the driver rolled down her window and greeted the pair.

"Hey, you two. We're not late, are we?"

"Not at all, Susan." replied Madison. "Are the Kogawa twins with you?"

The rear windows of the crew cab opened up, revealing two fraternal twins. "Yeah, Sadao and I are here, Maddie." said the female of the pair.

"You want me and Haru here to swap out to dirt tires, Maddie?" asked her brother.

"Please."

As the brother/sister pair and Madison went about swapping the tires on the Lancer, Bianca went elsewhere, leaving 'Susan' and Connor to talk to each other.

"So what's the story for Allison this time?" asked Jennifer.

"She's Madison O'Brien, 22 years old, does rallying as a hobby, been doing it for the past two years in a few different places." Brian replied.

"And you?"

"Why, I'm her Co-driver/boyfriend Connor Wellington, 27 years old, and been reading pace notes for Madison ever since we started dating. The two of us are madly in love, and I am a self-deprecating boyfriend because I get into a lot of car accidents."

"Aren't you worried she'll get too much into character?" asked Jennifer. "I mean, you've seen how Kara behaves towards Michele."

"Oh, we've done stuff like this before, and we've managed to keep the relationship fairly professional. Can we change the subject?"

Jennifer rolled her eyes before continuing. "Fine. You nervous at all?"

"For once, 'Madison' was the one being nervous. I think it's the competitive atmosphere, or something."

"She'll do great." opined Jennifer. "I've seen the kind of training you put that girl through. The rest of these guys are toast."

"We're not really here to race, though." replied Brian. "Anything from the chief on how we find our asset and get him out of here?"

"Not yet. I believe he's still coordinating with Section One so that in turn Section One can have their guy meet us. I'm sure that can be done in three days. Today's just a practice run, correct?"

"Yeah, but Allison can easily do this in her sleep, we practiced so much. At this rate, doing the practice run is just a formality, but I suppose it wouldn't hurt to have 'Madison' do the course one more time before qualifying tomorrow. It might be a bit of a wait, however, seeing as we're... number 50 in the queue."

"Well, here's hoping your run goes well. We'll be cheering for you out there."

* * *

About an hour later, the O'Brien-Wellington team crawled up to the starting line. The car ahead took off, and about a minute later, the starter whirled his arms to signal the pair in the Lancer to get ready. Madison revved up the engine to 3500, holding the revs until the starter dropped his arms, and she let out the clutch to engage first gear. Four tires screeched on the pavement in unison before propelling the Lancer onwards into the woods. Connor, with almost automated fashion, began blurting out pace notes.

_"Hard left into jump then easy right into dip then over crest to straight-"_

To his right, Madison was flying through the gears, giving the 5-speed and pedals a serious workout as she drove the course in accordance with the pace notes. Trees and spectators blurred by in a hurry as they rocketed through the woods. A few times, the Lancer had gotten airborne off of a jump, but with practiced ease, Madison would negotiate them with all the excitement of a stroll in the park.

As they reached a fairly sharp left-hand corner where there were lots of spectators lined up, Madison buried the throttle, and then upon closing in on the corner entrance, she jerked the steering wheel right, then left, performing a textbook 'Scandinavian Flick' as the rear swung right into the left-hand turn, Madison using the throttle and opposite lock to avoid spinning the car completely. In turn, the Lancer glided around the corner sideways gracefully, the rear tires kicking up a large cloud of dirt, drawing enthusiastic shouts from the crowd.

Eventually, the pair reached the end of the stage, with an elapsed time of 4:26 flat. Despite the fact that it was one second slower than Allison's best practice time, the course officials were impressed by the time 'Madison and Connor' had set.

"You two should do this professionally!" said a gray-haired timing official. "That's one of the fastest times we've ever seen yet!"

"Thank you very much," replied Madison modestly, "but that had to be just beginner's luck."

"Well, may that luck carry through with you to race day." said another timing official, this one a woman.

"We would like to hope so." replied Connor. "We will see you again tomorrow."

The pair bid goodbye to the timing officials before driving back to their pit area, where Susan and the Kogawa twins awaited them.

"Welcome back." greeted Susan. "We saw that Scandinavian flick, by the way. Poetry in motion. How'd you do?"

"4:26." replied Connor. "Not quite what we were aiming for, but it's only practice. We pull out all the stops in qualifying and race day."

"So what now?" asked Susan.

"I dunno." replied Brian. "Pub?"

"It's drink o' clock _somewhere_." replied Jennifer with a smile.

* * *

3.9 kilometers southeast of Rivalba, Birreria Boucanier Pub was abuzz with participants and spectators of the weekend's upcoming rally coming in for dinner and drink. Responsibly, patrons were asked their name and then matched up against a list of participating drivers, complete with photo identification. While spectators could get as drunk as they liked, drivers and co-drivers were allowed three pints at most, and had to have a designated driver to bring them back to their lodgings. As it were, the "O'Brien-Wellington" team and their support crew were presently at the bar, but only 'Connor and Susan' were imbibing any sort of alcohol, the others choosing to simply eat their dinner in relative peace.

Allison was just finishing up her plate of _Penne ala Vodka_ when a young gentleman took the vacant barstool next to her.

"Sorry if I'm taking up your personal space, _signorina_. Do you mind if I buy you a pint to make up for it?" asked the black-haired newcomer.

"Oh that's fine, _signore,_ you needn't buy me anything..."

"I insist, please." he replied, turning to the bartender. _"Barista, due di Moretti, per favore!"_

The barkeep wordlessly took two pint glasses and filled them with the well-known pale lager from the tap, setting them down on the counter as the foamy heads dissipated slowly. The young man pushed the other pint glass Allison's way, and with only a hint of hesitation punctuated with a reluctant smile, she took the glass and clinked it against his-"Cheers"-and took a pull before setting it down, grimacing a little as she swallowed the bitter beer.

"Not a beer person?" asked the young man. "I could get you something else."

"I don't really drink, sorry." replied the brunette, setting her eating utensils to one side of her plate.

"My apologies, then. I haven't even introduced myself, how rude of me. I'm Giancarlo Rosso."

"Madison O'Brien." replied Allison, already in character with a slight Irish lilt.

"What a lovely voice." complimented Giancarlo, switching to English. "You're the one who drives the Lancer Evolution, correct?"

"Tommi Makinen Edition. And I must say, your English is very good."

"It was my best subject in university. I intend to drive in the World Rally Circuit one day, and I would like to be accessible to all audiences." Rosso boasted.

"I see." replied Allison nonchalantly, only half-interested. "Well, I wish you the best come Sunday!"

"Likewise." replied Giancarlo. "Though if you ask me, I don't see what's stopping you from getting a start in racing professionally. I saw your stage time, and I was very impressed!"

"Rallying's fun for me and my boyfriend, but we don't want to get too serious about it. After all, it's just a hobby to us." replied Madison, forcing another sip of her pint.

"Yes..." said Giancarlo, the affability gone from his demeanor. "I suppose that's the answer I should expect from a poser Anglo-rich bitch like you."

Allison was taken by surprise, not expecting the sudden insult. "_Excuse_ me?" she asked, eyebrow arched in offense. "I don't know who the hell you think you are, but _nothing_ gives you the right to talk to me that way."

"You and your pathetic boyfriend are reason enough." replied Giancarlo, locking eyes with her. "You don't have the key element it takes to win. Not with the way you approach rallying. How dare you treat this motor_sport_ as a flight of fancy."

Giancarlo thumbed in the direction of a window directly within line-of-sight. "See that car out there?"

Allison glanced out the window and was a little surprised to see a Lancia Delta HF Integrale Evoluzione that was a spot-on replica of the 1992 World Rally Champion rally car, painstakingly emblazoned with all the exact same sponsoring decals as the historic car.

"Yeah, I see it. So you're a diehard Martini Racing fan. What of it?"

"I thought you'd be a little more perceptive, but I guess you have more money than brains. You lack the dedication necessary to be in this sport, which is what I have, and my car is how I show it."

"Funny how you failed to mention skill." retorted Allison venomously. "Dedication can only take you so far. You can have as much resemblance to the rally car your machine is based on as you want; you can even have a big support crew and full facilities if you wish. But dedication doesn't bring down your stage times like skill does. My car might not be as gussied-up as Tommi Makinen's actual rally car, but I have the skill to get me through."

"Oh, like knowing how to do the Scandinavian Flick is such a big deal." scoffed Rosso. "That 4:26 you got is beginner's luck. And like dedication, _that_ will only get you so far."

"You know, I'm forcing myself not to take this outside so that I can kick your arse into the nearest rubbish bin. All we're doing is talking; that's cheap."

"Are you suggesting we settle this on the race course?"

"That's _exactly_ what I'm suggesting. No need to be uncivilised about this matter. Just be prepared to have your dreams crushed on Sunday."

"Oh, I'm looking forward to winning." said Giancarlo with a smug smirk.

"Likewise." replied Allison with an equally-smug smirk.

"You enjoy your beer now, miss."

Giancarlo hopped off the barstool and disappeared into the crowd. As Allison sighed and shook her head, Brian walked over and took Giancarlo's place, sparing a passing glance at the hostile competitor before turning to his younger sister and speaking in a low voice.

"You mind telling me what _that_ was all about?"

"Need-to-know basis, and you don't have to worry about it."

Brian leaned in somewhat menacingly. "_**Allison.**_"

"Just some arsehole talking smack about beating me on Sunday."

"Let him talk. Need I remind you, that's not the reason we're here."

"You can't seriously expect me to let this go?" protested Allison.

"I can and _will_. I need your driving skills sharp for the extraction, don't waste them on some punk who's got an ego to maintain."

"But—I-" Allison began to protest, but then resigned disappointedly. "Yes, Brian."

"Besides, if you spank him in qualifying hard enough, you won't have to worry about going up against him."

Allison smiled at the silver lining her brother offered. If she had a time that would be hard for him to keep up with, this Giancarlo asshole she just spoke with could kiss his dreams goodbye.

* * *

The next day saw the qualifying round of the _Concorso di Rivalba_ rally, and with it, another run for the O'Brien-Wellington pair as they pulled up to the beginning of the stage. Surprisingly, Bianca would be starting them off. With no words spoken, Bianca smiled and pointed at Madison, who held in the clutch and built up her revs. Bianca counted down from 5 and then dropped her arm, and Madison let out the clutch , getting the tires to chirp on the pavement shortly before shooting off onto the dirt road.

_"Hard left into jump then easy right into dip then over crest to straight-"_

Madison once again worked the controls with precision through the twists and turns of the course, emboldened by her excellent run yesterday and motivated by the thought of vanquishing the arrogant Giancarlo Rosso before the official competition. If she could cement her place in qualifying and repeat her performance tomorrow, there would be no need to deal with Giancarlo if she could be ten or fifteen seconds faster than him. Therefore, she stayed on the pedal longer this time, keeping her Lancer controlled in the corners, sliding neatly around them and quickly accelerating as soon as the front end lined up with the corner exit, fast going in, _faster_ going out. Connor's machine-gun dictation of the pace notes were background noise now, just like the whine of the turbocharged engine muffled by the insulation of her helmet. As she approached another corner, she started flicking out the tail well before the corner entrance, initiating a high-speed Scandinavian flick, with little in the way of opposite lock, and upon catching a glimpse of the other side of the corner, she powered out, holding the wheel steadily and letting the all-wheel-drive system handle the legwork. Reaching a crest in the road, she committed to staying on the pedal as the Evo leapt with all the grace of a large cat over the crest before landing somewhat harshly on the flat straightaway ahead, the adjustments to the suspension settling the car quickly, though not comfortably.

The end results did not disappoint at all. The timing officials were astounded at the amount of time that elapsed.

"4...4:16." stammered one of the officials.

"Ten seconds off your practice time... This is a new record!" said another.

"You aren't cheating, are you?" asked a third.

"Check my engine and the rest of my car, give me a blood test; you won't find anything of the sort. I've simply been staying on the pedal longer."

"That was a joke. Anyhow, with the time you just made, you won't have to worry about not qualifying to race tomorrow. You can go ahead and rest up for the next day."

With the dismissal, Madison and Connor went back to their pit area, where they found their support crew talking with a fellow they'd never seen before, dressed in a pageboy hat, jeans, and button-up shirt. Susan caught their attention and waved them over.

"Madison, Connor! You're just in time! This guy's been waiting to meet you! He says he's a _very big fan_ of you both!"

"Didn't know we _had_ fans!" said Connor jovially. "Let's all go get lunch together, but first, your name."

"Leonardo Rossini, Mr. Wellington." replied the man. "I only became a _fan_ once I saw your performance in yesterday's practice."

"Well, it's nice to know we're _well-liked_." said Connor, casting a quick, furtive glance at his partner. "Would you like to ride with us to lunch? Unlike most cars here, our Lancer still has its backseat."

"I would like that very much, thank you."

The small group proceeded to their vehicles, and as they pulled out of their pit area, they began making their way to a small restaurant in the town proper. Once sure that they were not being watched, 'Connor' turned to the man in the backseat.

"I hate to say it, but I'm not too good at subterfuge and codeword." said Brian. "To think that finding you was based entirely on our tone of voice."

"Don't worry; I'm not very good at it, either. If I were, I wouldn't have had to be rescued in the first place." replied the passenger. "I really am Leonardo Rossini, but who are you guys?"

"Brian McDonnell." replied the Irishman, offering his hand. "And this is my partner, Allison. The other three you just met are Jennifer Fitzgibbons and her partners, Kyo and Ryo."

"So you folks are the rescue team?" asked Rossini, shaking Brian's hand.

"Yes. Unfortunately, we don't leave until tomorrow night, seeing as we have a cover to maintain. Chief Lorenzo says you've got a head full of intel?"

"Not just my head, but tapes and notes, too. If I somehow perish in the next 36 hours, I would prefer that this gets to the Agency no matter what."

"Don't worry, Mr. Rossini." said Allison, glancing quickly into her rearview mirror. "You're safe with us. We'll make sure you can get out of here so that you can personally deliver that information to the bosses."

"Aren't the roads blocked? What are you going to do, stash me in the boot to get out of here?"

"Heavens no. We've got a special flight lined up for you."

"Huh?"

"Don't worry, you'll find out. Now then, how about that lunch?"

* * *

About an hour or so later, the six-person group walked out of the restaurant, chatting jovially, unaware they were being watched. As the team and Leonardo walked back to their vehicles, Allison recognized the sound of a car coming from behind at a high rate of speed, exhaust note indicating a full-throttle approach. And a turbocharger. She spun around in time to see a certain Lancia-Martini Delta hurtling towards them and had enough time to shout a warning.

"OUT OF THE WAY!"

Everyone else quickly snapped to attention and leapt aside as the rally car replica blew by intimidatingly close to them, before the driver of the car locked up its brakes and sent the car into a lurid spinning stop, engine braying once in the same fashion a rattlesnake might hiss at a potential predator. As the Lancia idled in the middle of the street, the driver's side window descended, and engaging Allison in a bit of a staring competition was the same young man who had verbally attacked her the previous evening. The young man smirked at her before cupping his hand to his mouth and making an announcement.

"4:13, O'Brien! I dare you to beat me now!"

"I can make up three seconds by flexing my toe, Rosso! Prepare to get smoked, asswipe!" retorted Allison as 'Madison'.

"You won't be saying that when I'm pouring champagne over your head tomorrow!"

With that, Rosso floored the accelerator, spinning his Lancia back into the direction he was traveling, giving them 'the bird' out his window as he sped away, leaving behind four confused people, a sighing navigator, and an irritated driver.

"What was _that_ all about?" asked Leonardo, confused.

"That was Giancarlo Rosso..." Brian explained. "He's... he's got an ego."

"-which I will grind into dust tomorrow when we do this thing for real." said Allison thru gritted teeth. "I hate him. I hate him very much."

"Even more than the Padania?" asked Kyo.

"This a-hole makes the Padania look humble by comparison. He's grasping at straws, crowing about three seconds' advantage over me..."

"Well then, not that this hasn't been interesting, but we should get some rest this evening for the big day tomorrow." said Brian, clapping his hands together exactly once. "Jen, you mind taking Leonardo with you for now, make sure he gets back into hiding okay? We'd take him along, but I don't want him to be subjected to Allison when she's driving aggressively."

"Good idea." replied Jennifer. "See you guys tomorrow."

* * *

Race day had finally arrived, and with it, an uninvited guest.

Rain.

After two days practicing in dry conditions, an overnight low pressure system had moved into the area over Rivalba and released its aquatic payload several hours before the rally would begin. The course, previously just a solid if dusty dirt road, was now a long trail of muck that only got messier as participants rocketed down at speed, a number of them understeering badly and plowing into a ditch on the side of the road. While all this made for good spectator entertainment, it gave drivers another obstacle to contend with, especially Allison/Madison, who was absolutely dead-set on beating Giancarlo Rosso. With the weather being as it was, the female 'hobby rallyist' hoped that Giancarlo's skill would be muddled by the inclement weather:

"ROSSO—4:13" read the LED scoreboard.

Unfortunately, it wasn't. Now, it was the Wellington-O'Brien team's turn to go tackle the quagmire ahead. At the starting line, Madison flexed her hands on the wheel as she built up the revs for just the right launch, holding in the clutch like the last few times. Watching the starter's hands, Madison tensed as she awaited the arm drop that would send her on her way. As the tachometer hovered at 3500 rpm with a light hold on the throttle, the starter's arm let gravity take hold, and as soon as his arm began to drop, Madison let the clutch hook up and the Evo was off like a shot, wipers on and headlamps blazing as the tires bit into the muddy road, they threw up roostertails of mud in their wake. She drove with a possessed fervor, determined to utterly destroy Giancarlo Rosso's time.

* * *

Down the path, a man equipped with a Nikon D40 snapped a series of photos as one of the rally's participants slid by in full opposite lock around the sweeping corner where he stood. Knowing that cars were set to go every 45 seconds, he awaited the next one when he had the idea to step over the plastic barrier and get photos on the road itself. It would make for a great shot, and he'd seen people do it all the time and come out all right. Pushing his way through the crowd, he stepped over the plastic netting that separated spectators from the rally course. Squatting down for a low-angle shot, he sighted in through his viewfinder, already hearing the noise of the next car coming.

* * *

"-Long straight into easy left into straight into hard right-" recited Connor as Madison continued driving. As she looked ahead, she could spot someone standing in the middle of the road with a camera.

"Oh no, you fucking idiot, get out of the bloody road!" she said in alarm as she leaned on her horn in the hopes this shutterbug would get the hint. Up ahead, the daring spectator squeezed off a few more shots before trying to head back behind the safety of the plastic netting. As he made to move, however, he found that his boots had sunken into the mud, and he was stuck at the worst possible time. Trying to lunge forward and free himself, he only succeeded in falling flat on his face, the Lancer Evolution getting dangerously close to him, now.

_Not enough room, can't swerve around him, only one thing I can do if he's going to stay alive..._ thought Madison quickly.

"Connor! Hang on!"

"What-"

Before her co-driver could finish speaking, Madison had swung right, then left, shifting the weight of the vehicle quickly enough to lift its entire left side off the ground, lifting clear of the stuck spectator just in time to pass over him harmlessly, threading a needlepoint pass between the endangered cameraman and the spectators on the right side of the course.

Coming down, however, was a different story. As soon as the left side regained contact with the ground again, they spun too fast for any grip, and the world around Madison and Connor's Lancer became a blur as they spun out, Madison releasing the gas pedal to keep them from spinning any more. The car finally came to a stop perpendicular of the track's direction, and the two looked at each other for a few moments.

"You all right?" asked Madison.

"I am if you are." replied Connor. "You're not hurt, are you?"

"No. We better finish this thing."

Madison quickly shifted into first to get things rolling again, hoping to make up for lost time because of the accident.

* * *

The news was not good when they reached the end of the stage. As they pulled up to a timing official, the pair got the grim news they had somewhat expected.

"O'Brien-Wellington; five minutes, fifty seconds."

A look of shock crossed Madison's face as she drove back to her pit area. Shock turned to sadness as she parked, shutting off the engine before openly weeping into her hands, forehead against the steering wheel as she took off her helmet and began sobbing.

"Allison, Allison, don't cry!" said Brian, trying to console his young companion. "Come on, you did great out there!"

"I LOST!" wailed Allison in response, tears rolling down her cheeks. "I got all angry about defeating that Giancarlo guy and now I'm a loser who can't back up her words! Do you know how horrible that feels? If I'm supposed to be the best, then why can't I beat a jerk like him? I—I- uwaaaaaaaa! I'm-*sniff*-I'm sorry, Brian! I'm a-*hic*-fuh-failure and a l-loser and you deserve better than me!"

Allison continued to cry, this time being hugged reassuringly by her 'older brother' who stroked her hair as he attempted to calm her down.

"Shh, shh, shh... It's all right, Allison. Look, I'm sure that if that idiot yokel weren't trying to snap photos, you would've beat the pants off of that Giancarlo guy.. someone just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, you made sure they wouldn't be injured, and no one got hurt. Everyone has their off days, Allie, don't beat yourself up over it. You did **fine**."

Allison's sobbing slowed down as she looked up at her older brother. "You really think so?"

"I _know_ so." replied Brian, looking Allison in the eye. "No trophy is worth letting an innocent bystander get hurt. You did the right thing, and that's what good people do. You, Allison, are a good person. Don't ever forget that."

"So... you don't care that I didn't bring home a trophy?"

"With all the attention it entails? The extra weight it would create? Allie, we're just here to get someone out safely. It's not like winning the rally was a necessity. Any other day, you'd have beaten that tosser. Just not today, that's all."

"Thanks, Brian." replied Allison, nuzzling into her elder brother's shoulder.

"Anytime, Allison."

The two stayed embraced for a few moments more, allowing the 'Petrolhead Princess' to calm down until she was coherent and no longer upset.

"Come on, let's go get lunch." said Brian. "That is, unless you want to stick around and hear Giancarlo gloat?"

"Lunch sounds like a better winner than Giancarlo. Let's go eat."

* * *

Allison and Brian reconvened with their 'pit crew' at the same restaurant they had been yesterday with Rossini. When Jennifer, Kyo, and Ryo heard what happened to Allison, they, much like Brian, consoled her as best as they could, though Allison said she was over it. The focus now was evacuating Leonardo Rossini by air once night fell upon Rivalba.

"Where are you guys going to be staging from?" asked Brian. "I imagine the drive up was long?"

"That's why we didn't drive. We airlifted everything from Rome to Turin-Caselle. And that's where we're taking off from tonight. We'll pack the Hilux into the C-130, and we'll be ready to pick you guys up. When do you want us to be in the air?"

"No later than 2200 hours." stated Brian. "We hope to be mobile with Leonardo by then, and hopefully no shots will be fired."

"Let's hope so. But what if that's not the case?" asked Allison.

"Then I pray, Allison, that you have the rally stage memorized. And that you have some way to synchronize with Jennifer and the twins here."

"Oh, don't worry, I do."

With a smile, Allison motioned to Kyo and Ryo as they walked away form the table, leaving Brian with a foreboding feeling.

* * *

Several hours later, Brian and Allison had packed the last of their things into the boot of the Evo before slamming the boot lid closed. Brian headed to the front passenger's seat once again while Allison took her usual place behind the wheel. Unlike their preparation for the rally, however, the two did not take off right away, instead reaching into the rear seat, lowering the seatback forward to remove their weapons from the hollowed-out space. Allison went ahead and loaded her Kimber before tucking it into the space between the center console and the driver's seat, starting up the Evo while Brian opened up a rifle case and began assembling the two halves of his HK 416 carbine. As Allison drove the short distance through the _comune_ to Leonardo's temporary lodgings, Brian slid together the upper receiver and the lower receiver, pushing down the receiver pin up front to lock the halves together at a pivoting point before he pinched the rear upper receiver tabs slightly so that they would slide into place on the lower receiver, then securing the upper and lower receivers by pushing in the rear lower receiver pin. Sliding the fire selector to the single bullet pictogram, he pulled back the charging handle, hearing the metallic parts inside click and clack as they met and separated. Inspecting the chamber to ensure there wasn't a round in it, he let the charging handle go, the bolt carrier sliding forward, and then he squeezed the trigger, a dull click signaling the absence of a live cartridge. Finally, he slapped in a 30-round Pmag and yanked the charging handle back again, this time chambering a round as the bolt carrier traveled forward and stripped a round from the top of the polymer magazine. Sliding the fire selector to safe position, Brian tucked the carbine down between his seat and the center console just as Allison slowed the car to a stop outside a small inn. Leonardo was waiting for them in the lobby, and Brian stepped out of the car to meet him.

"All aboard, one-way express away from Rivalba!" joked Brian. Leonardo offered him a small smile as the Section 1 agent made his way to the Evo with duffel bag in hand.

"You guys couldn't arrive sooner?"

"You do have a connecting flight to catch."

"What is that all about, anyway? We headed to Turin Casselle?"

"You'll see."

"Man, surprises in this situation are never a good thing." muttered Leonardo. As he said this, the screech of tires and the blinding flash of headlights caught the group of three in their tracks as a black Mercedes-Benz 190E screamed towards them, muzzle flashes emanating from the windows and atop the car as poorly-aimed rounds zipped past their heads while Brian shoved Leonardo into the rear seat. Allison, Kimber in hand, aimed out her window and started slinging .45 ACP rounds in a path from the engine bay of the Benz into the passenger cabin, managing to neutralize the driver before she had to reload. As Brian jumped into the front passenger's seat popping off a couple rounds of his own, he quickly picked up his HK416 and flicked he selector to full automatic.

"Drive! Drive!"

Allison quickly slammed the clutch pedal in and tromped down on the accelerator as she put the car in gear, the wheels spinning and the car lurching forward from its parking spot towards the immobilized Benz, whose surviving passengers quickly dismounted and continued firing at the Lancer. Fortunately, the armoring on the Evo by Q-Branch held up as AK-47 rounds and MAC 11 9mm rounds scored the bodywork and windows, the various bullet-resistant polymers doing their job. As they closed in on their assailants, Allison accelerated further as she shifted into second gear, and almost immediately after, the nose of the Evo collided with the legs of one of the gunmen firing at them. He was tossed up onto the hood, his back and head slammed into the windshield as a result of the car's forward motion before rolling completely over the car and landing square on his back in the street, the force of the impact damaging his spine to the point of paralysis.

As the Evo tore through the narrow streets, it was soon pursued by several hatchbacks and sedans as Brian leaned out his window and ripped off controlled bursts from his carbine at his and Allison's pursuers. Hoping to give themselves some breathing room, Allison reached down towards the center console looking to deploy the rear-mounted X-Net traps that would quickly bring the blue BMW 3-series behind her to a screeching halt. However, her left hand ended up pawing around confusedly before she realized her folly—the X-Nets were only on the Delta!

"Brian!" Allison shouted over the din. "Switchblade on my mark!"

"All right, when you're ready!"

"3...2...1... MARK!"

Allison yanked the handbrake to snap the rear wheels out of traction, temporarily shedding off velocity as the Lancer began to spin around 180 degrees. As the car turned about-face, Allison clutched in and threw the gear lever into reverse and floored the gas pedal to stay in motion. With her window down and her Kimber freshly loaded, she aimed her sidearm out and forward, directly in line with the BMW's driver. Her right-hand-drive car gave her an advantage, directly lining her up with the weakest point of a pursuing civilian vehicle, and she fired off three rounds, resulting in a neat cluster of spiderwebs on the BMW's safety glass and a splash of pink and red behind the obscured windscreen. The BMW slewed into a lurid 90-degree turn before smashing into a parked Fiat, slowing down the rest of the pursuers and buying more real estate between the Evo and their attackers.

In the backseat, Leonardo righted himself to look behind them, but quickly dropped down when a rifle bullet embedded itself in the bullet-resistant rear windscreen.

"Stay down! We're not out of danger yet!" admonished Brian, loading another PMAG into his HK416. Up ahead, Allison spotted the entrance to the forest, and the subsequent rally stage. As they entered, Allison plugged her Fuze into the car stereo with Mona Lisa Overdrive already cued up and hit play, startling Brian as the synth beat came over the rather powerful car speakers.

"Allison, what are you—is that _music_?"

"We're being chased, aren't we? Might as well add that final touch!"

"Allison, this is not the time for this! Turn that shite off right now!"

"Remember when you said you hoped I had a way of memorizing the course? Well, here it is; now shut up and keep shooting!"

Brian blinked for a second. His younger charge was wild, impulsive, and did lots of things with cars that he could frankly live without experiencing, but this method of mastering the rally course, unexpected though it may have been, was one of Allison's more brilliant moments. With a small smile and a shake of his head, he turned his attention rearward to find an Audi A4 chasing them down. Muzzle flashes leapt out from its windows, and Brian naturally responded by firing back a few shots before he felt the Evo twist beneath him as Allison slid around a sweeping left-hander. The A4 chasing them suddenly dropped back sharply as the driver attempted to brake for the turn, only to plow into a tree in a noisy mess of crunching metal, shattering glass, and splintering polycarbonate.

A voice broke radio silence, coming through a two-way radio speaker mounted upon the dash—the voice they were waiting for.

"Muddy Mouse, this is Herky Bird! We're in position, over!" radioed Jennifer triumphantly.

"Muddy Mouse copies, Herky Bird. Begin descent now, expect to rendezvous in T minus one minute, thirty seconds, over." replied Allison with some relief.

"Acknowledged, Muddy Mouse. Herky Bird is going wheels-down. Out."

"What was that all about?" asked Leonardo from the backseat. "What did that mean?"

"It means-" began Brian before Allison interrupted.

"-Sit down, shut up, and hang on!"

Allison grinned ferally and shifted up before burying her right sneaker and the gas pedal into the floor, prompting the Variable-Geometry Turbo to shove pounds of boost and compressed air into the intake manifold. The car responded immediately, rocketing forward down the harrowing narrow straight before launching off a crest in the road. For a brief second, all the occupants of the car felt their stomachs suddenly lighten and then drop as gravity took hold, bringing down the rally car with a thump, but Allison's skill held the car on course. Though they could hear other engines roaring behind them, they were far behind and were fading with each passing second. As Allison negotiated each twist and turn and jump in the course, she kept pouring the coal to the Evo, never relenting on speed.

And why would she? Her heroes never relented on speed when it meant coming out on top. She had seen the videos, played the video games, read the stories, knew the names. Biaison. Burns. Carlsson. The two Makinens. The late Colin McRae. Solberg. Sainz. Loeb. They had done the kind of driving she was doing, and for this moment in time, 'Petrolhead Princess' McDonnell was in their league, using every ounce of skill in her body to guide her machine though the still-muddy gauntlet of the _Concorso di Rivalba_ rally stage. She went faster than other, 'normal' rally drivers would dare, one one particular straight managing to nudge 90mph on the speedometer before bleeding off speed to initiate a slide into a corner.

Four minutes, twenty-six seconds elapsed since they entered the woods. After all that, Allison got her reward. The hum of four turboprop engines in unison was the most welcome sound to her ears as an Olive Green Warhawk Military Aviation Lockheed-Martin C-130 Hercules transport plane came barreling into the field ahead of them, wheels down as it throttled back to land and match the speed of the Lancer Evo closing in. in the backseat, Leonardo went wide-eyed.

"_This_ is my 'connecting flight'? You people are crazy!"

"Hah! Why else are we doing it?" replied Allison, shifting up and chasing after the plane. On cue, the ramp had dropped down and Allison's enhanced vision could detect the IR strobes Kyo and Ryo were holding on either side of the cargo bay. Jennifer radioed to the Evo a welcome.

"Ramp's down, nest is open. Come on out of the cold, Muddy Mouse, over."

"Copy, Herky Bird. Muddy Mouse is entering the nest, over."

Just like in practice, Allison matched the speed of the C-130, nosing the Lancer in towards the deployed ramp. As soon as her front wheels were on the ramp, the rally car gently ambled into the cargo bay, leaving her plenty of time to brake smoothly and stay on as Kyo and Ryo secured the Lancer with wheel chocks.

"Car secure, Jennifer!" radioed Ryo over the intercom.

"All right, hang onto something, we're lifting off."

Jennifer increased throttle and eased back on the yoke as the nose of the cargo plane lifted off gently, clearing the treetops as the ramp was brought up to secure the rear of the plane. Climbing to altitude, Jennifer set course for Rome, and from here out, it was smooth sailing. In the Lancer, Allison and Brian smiled at each other and then turned to Leonardo in the back, who had his eyes shut, prepared for the worst.

"Hey man, we're golden." said Brian.

"We're... _not_ dead?" asked Leonardo, opening his eyes.

"Far from it. We're alive and on a plane headed home." said Allison. "Unfortunately, we don't exactly have in-flight meals, drinks, or snacks, but you wouldn't want it anyway—just a bunch of American MRE's."

"I thought you liked those." said Brian.

"Only when I'm truly dead hungry. Otherwise, I'll wait till I'm back at the compound to see if Becky and Miss Cindy are barbecuing."

Suddenly, their conversation was interrupted by a piercing tone coming from the cockpit. At the controls, Jennifer and her copilot Yuri scrambled to deal with the situation.

"Okay, people, we have missile lock! Let's not get shot down, please?"

"_Chyort!_ Launch detected, Deploying countermeasures!" Yuri announced. Hitting a designated switch, the bottom of the fuselage erupted with a shower of flares and chaff as the C-130 banked away. Luckily, the surface-to-air missile targeting them took the bait and went after the larger heat source.

"Kids, battle stations, now! Find the tossers shooting at us!" ordered Jennifer as Kyo and Ryo rushed to a Barrett M82A1 and a Denel NTW-20 affixed to gun ports in the fuselage. Both of them were currently equipped with FLIR scopes for nighttime target acquisition through smoke and weather and racks of large-caliber magazines for each anti-material rifle were close at hand for faster reloading as the two scanned the ground below for signs of their enemies, and it did not take long to spot a group of hostiles upon a hilltop just off the port side. Small arms fire arced up at them, a few rounds impacting on the armored fuselage.

"Spotted them off the port side! I count several of them!" shouted Kyo.

"Kyo, suppress them! Ryo! Take out the missile launcher and its operator!"

Without another word, the twins opened fire, Kyo rapid-firing the M82A1 to pin down the enemies on the ground below, swapping in a new magazine roughly every five seconds, his shots sounding like an autocannon. Meanwhile, Ryo adjusted her aim as she sighted in, gunning for the man with the Strela. Once her aim was steadied, she fired, and as the bullet had added velocity coming from above, the 20mm round came down in such a way that not only did it completely shred the launcher of the heat-seeking missile, but it also blew the man who was about to fire it into ludicrous gibs of what used to be a human male.

Kyo then proceeded to mop up with the Barrett, slowing down his suppression rate to target the remaining individuals. The FLIR scope made the violent deaths of his targets seem a little less realistic as each shot that hit their mark practically detonated each of the fleeing Padanians like burst water balloons, their still-warm bodily fluids and entrails seemingly splashing skywards when viewed through the FLIR scope in heated white against colder black in thermal vision.

When Kyo dispatched the last of their attackers, he uttered "All clear Starboard side." before checking the port side of the aircraft for any more opponents. "All clear Port side. Both sides clear." he announced as a follow-up.

"Gonna have to put that in the report—Padanians are now getting hold of SAMs. I'll bet they were expecting a helicopter, though..." noted Jennifer as she began to relax.

"Is very bad, _da?_" said Yuri in rough English. "If Padanians get Strela missiles and bring them onto elevated structure—a bell tower, perhaps, hold entire area in siege, instant no-fly zone. Air assault virtually impossible- we would have to smart-bomb them or launch full-scale gunship assault."

"Exactly, Yuri. Problem is, it doesn't look good when you have to use gunships on terrorists. Gives them more propaganda ammunition against the government who hired us. The only option left would be a meat grinder assault. God forbid the girls and boys be put into that situation..."

Jennifer shuddered at the thought of encountering such a scenario. Though she knew Kyo and Ryo would do fairly well in an urban situation, most likely being relegated to marksman duty, it was the other girls and boys she was worried about. While she had faith in the girls, the thought of Triela, Henrietta, Beatrice, Chiara, Silvia, and all the others being shoved into a potential suicide mission unsettled her. When she first started flying transport and air support for Section 2 about a year or so before Kyo and Ryo came into her life, she had come to know these girls well, as more than just instruments for the destruction of terrorism. An outsider might view the cyborgs as super-beings, but at their core, Jennifer saw them as human, and just as vulnerable. Cyborgs might be better-protected than most humans, with their cutting-edge technology and built-in armor, but by no means were they invincible. Enough guns, bullets, and proper aim could still kill them like any other human being, and the groups that Section 2 took action against frequently had trained former soldiers in their ranks. The thought of any of the girls and boys being slain in action scared Jennifer, and all she could do was avoid thinking about that situation. However, it was a possibility that would never go away.

* * *

The group touched down at Pratica di Mare Air Force Base around midnight, finally offloading the Lancer when they reached the hangar, where Yuri retired to his caravan parked semi-permanently in a corner of the hangar. As Allison, Brian, and Leonardo disembarked from the C-130, they were met by Professor Enzo and Fiona, who had arrived with an enclosed car trailer attached to a Toyota Hilux crew cab. Most notably, Allison's Delta was also present, presumably having been brought over in the trailer.

"Welcome back, guys!" greeted Fiona.

"Did the Lancer perform as expected?" asked Enzo.

Brian gestured to Leonardo. "He's not bleeding, is he?"

"What about the rally? How'd that go?"

"I don't want to talk about it right now..." said Allison, yawning. "I just want to go home and get to bed."

"You want me to drive?" offered Brian.

"I'm not _that_ tired." said Allison with a smile, taking the keys from Fiona.

"Of course you aren't..." replied Brian with a roll of his eyes.

Leonardo had been fishing his luggage out of the trunk of the Evo when he heard the sound of tires peeling out of the hangar and turned, his expression becoming one of horror when he saw Allison and Brian taking off without him.

"How am I gonna get home now?" he asked in frustration to no one in particular. He then heard a sharp whistle from behind, turning to see the Fitzgibbons trio waiting at their parked Holden Commodore.

"Need a lift?" asked Jennifer with a kindly smile.

"Sure!" replied Leonardo enthusiastically. He went to catch up with them, loading up the trunk with his luggage before ambling into the front passenger's seat, Kyo and Ryo deferring to him and taking up the backseat as Jennifer started up the V8 saloon car and eased the vehicle out of the hangar. As they exited the airbase, Jennifer glanced over at Leonardo. The 28-year-old Section One agent, now that she took the time to study him, was a fairly handsome fellow, and considering there wasn't much else to do on the drive back home and 'the twins' had already nodded off in the back, she thought she'd take a chance at striking up conversation with her nearest passenger.

"So, Leonardo, are you interested in motorsport by any chance?"

"I actually like touring car racing, as a matter of fact! I follow Gabriele Tarquini's career, in particular."

"_Well, if you like touring car racing, we have this thing back in Oz called V8 Supercars..."_


	7. Zero to Sixty in a New York Minute

**Tire Tracks and Spent Casings**

**A Gunslinger Girl Fanfic by MP5**

Disclaimer: Gunslinger Girl is the property of Yu Aida. All trademarks featured herein are copyright their respective owners. Allison and Brian as well as other original characters herein are property of MP5 unless otherwise noted.

Kara Pagani and Michele Pagani are the property of Kiskaloo

Lucretia and Melanie are the property of ChaosKin640

Wes and Nat are the property of Alfisti from Cyborg Central forums/ Wraith11 on deviantArt

Diego Zhao/Rush copyright Chuck Dixon and DC Comics

* * *

**Chapter 7: Zero to Sixty in a New York Minute**

**New York City**

"Get down. We gotta stay out of sight."

Two figures in the shadow of a Manhattan alleyway ushered themselves behind a large metal dumpster as the wail of several sirens grew to a peak. Around ten NYPD Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptors screamed past on Madison Avenue heading southwest where a shootout had just occurred.

"How's the wound, Pietro?" asked one of them, a woman with short brown hair.

"Still hurts, Elenora, but I'll live." replied a man with black hair and stubble clutching his side.

"If we can dodge the cops and the mob, we can make it to my _Zio's_ place in Bensonhurst. It's safe there, and we can re-establish contact with home. I really wish we didn't have to destroy our phones, but the damn GPS..."

"Why not get a burn phone, instead?" asked Pietro, trying to offer a simpler solution.

"No roaming allowed- can't make international calls with one." replied Elenora.

"How are we for money? We could take a cab to your uncle's place."

"First, we tend to your wounds and dump these clothes. And if possible, we'll try to take the subway. It's cheaper, we can blend in better, we won't be stuck in traffic, and there's inevitably one that runs to where we need to go. But we have to be careful, what happened at that warehouse probably increased police presence, not to mention those mafia guys are probably looking up and down for us."

"All right. Meds and clothes it is." agreed Pietro, pulling out his SIG-Sauer P226 and checking the magazine. "How are you for ammo? I still have a couple spare mags."

"Just two spare mags on my end. I don't want to have to use this if I can help it." replied Elenora, checking her sidearm as well.

"That's the spirit." replied Pietro, holstering his SIG. "I'm ready to move again and the pain isn't too bad. Let's go."

The two left the safety of the alleyway, leaving behind a few insignificant crimson drops behind them.

* * *

**Social Welfare Agency Special Operations Section II, Rome**

"Lorenzo, I wouldn't be asking you if I didn't have to, but these are my two best people on the line, here." admitted Section One's Chief Draghi.

"Gabrielli and Fermi, right? The two you sent to snoop in _my_ territory during the Elsa case?" replied Section Two Chief Pieri Lorenzo, bringing up some past unpleasantness.

"Yes, _those_ two. I had them on an assignment tracking a source of American-made black market weapons going to the likes of Camorra and the Five Republics Faction, but they were compromised and Section One has lost contact with them. I have to ask your help because my section is understaffed as it is, and I know you have people who would be up to this task."

Lorenzo interlaced his fingers atop his desk as he regarded his Section One counterpart and rival. "All right, suppose I do you a favor here. Who exactly did you have in mind?"

"The fratello that was responsible for extracting Leonardo Rossini from Rivalba. I would like them to retrieve Fermi and Gabrielli from New York City. I think Rossini said they were the McDonnell Fratello."

Lorenzo thought about it for a moment or two. Sending in the McDonnells would not only have Draghi owe him as long as his two agents were returned safely, but they could also cement Thomas McDonnell as an ally and informant stateside, where there were a lot of links with organized crime from Italy. A source of information such as Thomas could aid them greatly. All that was left to do was convince Brian McDonnell to straighten things out with his cousin. The officer was undoubtedly a good cop, but the way he did things was less than by the book, and that could be exploited if he refused to cooperate.

"All right then, Draghi. I'll send the McDonnells to rescue your agents. But remember that you owe me now. I will expect your cooperation when I ask for it."

"Whatever you need, Lorenzo." replied Draghi almost grudgingly. "Just get my people back safely."

Draghi left the office quickly, and Lorenzo wasted no time in getting the ball rolling. "Jean," he said into his office phone after dialing up his second-in-command. "Get McDonnell into my office."

* * *

"So what was driving in a special-stage rally like?" asked Kara as she began field-stripping her FN F2000 at one of the picnic tables at the outdoor range. She and Allison had finished a bit of target practice and the two found time to talk while committing to the almost-religious maintenance process of their primary weapons.

"Oh man, it's even better than on TV!" gushed Allison excitedly as she started taking down her CTAR-21. "You're screaming through the forest at like maybe fifty to seventy miles an hour, blind corners all over the place and all you're going on is the pace notes which are read off like five seconds before you actually get to the turn, and when you do turn, you're almost always going sideways because you can't brake like you do on tarmac, and you also need to maintain high speed through the turn, so at least every other turn is a drift. It's just so intense, Kara, you really have to try it sometime, I swear!"

"Sounds like fun, but I like doing Regularity rallies with Michele. I always look forward to the Mille Miglia." replied Kara, cleaning the main operating mechanism of her F2000.

"I'm sure the Mille is nice, Kara, but you haven't lived until you do a special-stage rally. In fact, if Q-branch has fixed the Evo, we can probably still do a run through the practice course!"

Kara's face simply returned a nervous and sheepish smile before the two were interrupted by the sound of full-automatic gunfire from the range nearby. Their attention was focused on a lone boy dressed in blue mechanics'-style overalls firing an Israeli Military Industries Negev Light Machine Gun.

The boy, who appeared to be of middle eastern descent, held down the trigger on the LMG while he opened fire on his target in standing position, folding stock pressed well against his shoulder. Casings and plastic disintegrating links from the belt-fed weapon piled into a mound on his right as he continued firing, barrel rise apparently a non-issue with the weapon, which chattered away with 5.56x45mm NATO rounds at a rate of 1,000 rounds per minute. Surely enough, the belt that was fed into the weapon—composed exactly of 1,000 cartridges linked together—ran out after a full minute of non-stop firing. The barrel smoked as the boy set down his weapon and produced a small Apple MacBook as he typed rapidly into it with one hand entering data on the keyboard while his other arm supported the laptop itself. He hit a final keystroke before nodding and shutting the laptop closed, placing it back into a shoulder bag. He then took a small brush and swept his casings and disintegrating links into a small plastic bag. He then picked up the Negev and opened up the chamber to check for any rounds before safing the weapon and slinging it over his shoulder as he went back to the compound building, not noticing the two girls watching him. As he left, Allison and Kara got up from their seats to look at the target the boy had just shot up. They were amazed to find a tight grouping no larger than a fist in the center-of-mass in the human silhouette target downrange. A thousand rounds had gone into making this extremely precise grouping.

"He certainly can shoot." mused Allison. "He's _got_ to be a cyborg if he can get a grouping like that on full auto and still chew through a 1000-round belt nonstop."

"Who is he, though?" wondered Kara.

"Beats me. Never seen him around here before." replied Allison. "Anyway, let's pack up. I have to talk to Lucretia about something that'll help me on future missions."

* * *

"YOU DID _**WHAT**_?" screamed Brian in response to the last sentence to come out of Chief Lorenzo's mouth. The Ulsterman was now out of his seat, which had toppled over when he suddenly stood up in a fit of emotion. Across from him, Lorenzo spoke again with the neutral calm he had begun the meeting with.

"Did it sound like I was mumbling, McDonnell?" asked Lorenzo rhetorically. "I said that after a few months after Allison's field trial in New York, we had sent Ferro, Jean, and Priscilla to have a talk with your cousin Thomas, and they have told him everything he needs to know."

"With all due respect, sir, what the bloody _hell_ gave you the right to go behind my back and drop everything onto _my_ cousin? What makes you think _my family_ is worth involving?"

"Because he can serve a purpose, Brian. Because he is on the side of justice. Most importantly, because _you_ got him involved. I was simply taking measures to prevent him from becoming a _liability_. Now sit down and let me continue before we waste more time."

Lorenzo went on to explain the disappearance of Fermi and Gabrielli in New York City and the urgency of recovering them. When he was finished, Brian finally piped in, anger still evident on his face, but focusing on the mission at hand.

"So where does my cousin come into this?" asked Brian.

"Well, as a police officer, he should no doubt have heard about this by now, and if he is following the instructions we have given him, he will no doubt have some measure of assistance available for us. Utilize that assistance as you see fit, but what matters is that you recover the Section One Agents Fermi and Gabrielli before local law enforcement or organized crime groups get ahold of them."

"Let me guess, me and Allison are to leave immediately?"

"Yes. Time is of the essence. Yuri has already been notified in Jennifer's stead and has a plane waiting at Pratica Di Mare while the Fitzgibbons Fratello are out on assignment. Consider yourself dismissed."

Brian stood up and turned on his heel to walk out the door.

"One more thing, Brian."

The elder member of the McDonnell Fratello turned to face the chief. "Yes?"

"You better learn how to keep a lid on that temper of yours and remember your place. I don't tolerate insubordination like what you've just shown me. I need professionals, McDonnell, not loose cannons. Now continue on your way."

"Yes, sir."

Brian exited the office and proceeded immediately towards the armory. Walking at a pace that matched his still-simmering anger and frustration, he soon found his way to a window reinforced with a steel grate and bulletproof glass and a doorbell built into the frame of the window which provided a view of multiple weapons racks where rifles, submachine guns, and other long guns were held. He rang the doorbell and a middle eastern boy answered the call, coming from the back of the armory still adorned with his protective leather apron and safety glasses.

"_Buon Giorno_, Mr. Brian. It is nice to see you today." greeted the boy. "Mission, or target practice?"

"Mission, Saladin. Short-notice and urgent. Diplomatic-marked, please."

"Of course, sir." the boy replied, disappearing for a few seconds. He came back to the window and opened a small door and tray beneath the counter, passing through a very large padded and lead-lined secured bag with clear markings that it had the designation of a diplomatic bag and was exempt from customs search.

"Your HK416 and Allison's Tavor as requested, plus twenty PMags and ten 7-round Kimber 1911 mags, two 300-round boxes Winchester 5.56 NATO ammunition, two 50-round boxes Fiocchi .45 ACP ammunition, plus cleaning kits and batteries for the electronic sights, as per usual. And just in case, there are also four M67 fragmentation grenades, four M84 Stun Grenades, and four AN M18 Smoke grenades included in one of the external pockets, the safety pins have been taped down to prevent accidental discharge during transport."

"Thanks, Saladin. I owe you."

"You owe me nothing, Mr. Brian. It is my job. I shall leave you to yours, then."

Brian waved farewell to the young boy before leaving to fetch his young charge and get his own personal effects.

* * *

Meanwhile, Allison had walked into a room whose door was marked 'Melanie-Lucretia', where she found a girl with black purple-streaked hair sitting in front of a comprehensive desktop computer setup. The girl had on a pair of Razer Barracuda HP-1 gaming headphones as she clicked a mouse rapidly and her left hand danced on the keyboard, clearly focused on the on-screen game, _Starcraft II_. Allison shifted the messenger bag hanging on her shoulder before tapping the girl to get her attention, which startled the girl, and with her attention diverted, things suddenly went in her opponent's favor onscreen as her units were quickly massacred.

"Dammit Allison! I'm on a _Korean _server!" the girl began to rage. "You have any idea what you just did? Those guys are as fast as _I_ am, and I'm a cyborg. Look at it now, I'm getting owned, and it's all your fault!"

"Sorry, Lucy." replied Allison apologetically. "But right now, I've got a big job for you that requires your expertise and full attention. Something you can really sink your teeth into."

Lucretia forgot her anger for a second, intrigued by Allison's words. "All right, go on. What have you got for me?"

Allison smiled and unzipped the messenger bag, dumping the contents onto the bottom bunk bed. Many several jewel-cased discs spilled onto the bedspread followed by a small handheld electronic device with an LCD display and a long wire leading out of it that ended in a peculiar-looking plug. Lucretia picked up a few of the discs, which were DVDs upon closer inspection. Each of them had a single name written on them.

"Audi... Alfa Romeo... Lancia... Toyota... Nissan... Mercedes-Benz... BMW... Fiat... Allison, these discs all have manufacturer's names on them. Care to tell me what this is about?"

"This is about unlocking the full potential out of almost any car I can get into. Those discs you have in your hand contain configurations for the majority of automobiles out there in dot-CFG form. Each configuration is designed to squeeze the maximum amount of horsepower out of a given engine via changes to the settings of a computer-based Engine Control Unit. For example, if I pick out say, a late-model BMW M5 and upload the new configuration to it, I can choose to have nothing but the full M Driving Mode 507 horsepower and sharper throttle response as soon as I fire up the engine, but more importantly, it jailbreaks the car from that pesky 155 mile per hour electronic speed limiter. Of course, that might pose some risk to the overall integrity of various components, but it's nice to have a higher top speed just in case."

"So in other words, automotive cheat codes." replied Lucretia, shuffling the discs.

"If you want to put it that way, yes."

Lucretia gave Allison a grin. "I like it."

"How much time am I looking at for this to get done, Lucy? Got an estimate?"

"Well, copying the .cfg files isn't going to be a problem, the computer can do that automatically. However, I still have to write the software for the handheld computer here—I've never seen this plug by the way, what's it for?"

"That plugs into a vehicle's On-Board Diagnostics port—OBDII, for short."

"Okay, well I'm going to have to play around with this to understand its workings a bit better, though I do see it has a USB port. All told, I'd say at least a month before you can start using this."

"That big a project, huh?" said Allison. "All right, I can live with that. What do I owe you? Some cash? Maybe some hardware?"

"Tempting, but no. Rather, I'd like to be owed a favor that I can call in when I feel the time is right. Is that reasonable enough to you?"

"As long as it's a reasonable favor to call in, Lucy. You've got yourself a deal."

Allison and Lucy shook hands to confirm their little transaction, and it was right at that moment Brian knocked on the door of the dorm room.

"Hello, Lucy." Brian greeted before turning to his younger sister. "Allison, pack a travel kit good for 24-48 hours and fire up the Delta. We've got a callout to New York, effective immediately."

"What for?"

"I'll tell you on the way to Pratica Di Mare, now move it."

Minutes later, Allison had her own personal effects packed into a duffel bag and both her and Brian were in Allison's Delta sprinting towards Pratica Di Mare airbase. In the passenger's seat, Brian unloaded his and Allison's sidearms before tucking them in the 'diplomatic bag' in the back.

"Brian, are you going to brief me, or not?" asked Allison, not taking her eyes off the road.

"Right. We're being sent on another rescue mission. Gabrielli and Fermi got themselves involved in a shootout while investigating some kind of black market weapons deal for Chief Draghi. All we know right now is that they were in Manhattan when they last contacted home base before destroying their phones so that they couldn't be tracked."

"And we're expected to find them? Needle in a haystack, much?"

"Actually, it might not be that difficult. We're going to meet with Cousin Tommy and see what he knows. He might even have assistance for us."

"Cousin Tommy?" asked Allison, a single eyebrow cocked in surprise. "What does he have to do with this mission? Is there something I should know, Brian?"

"We'll answer that question later, Allison. Right now, let's just get to the airbase and meet with Yuri. He's got a plane waiting to get us out of here."

"Okay..."

Allison shifted to a higher gear and pressed on down the Autostrada, the exhaust note of her Delta lingering in the air as it went along.

* * *

"_Whiskey-Mike-Alpha Zero-One, you are cleared for takeoff on runway one, over."_

"Copy, tower. Whiskey-Mike-Alpha Zero-One, taking off. Out."

Yuri increased throttle and disengaged the brakes, beginning the Ilyushin IL-76MD Warhawk Custom's takeoff roll down one of the runways on Pratica Di Mare airbase. The large cargo plane built up speed before the wings gained lift, bringing the aircraft into the sky, landing gears retracting into the fuselage as it took off into the sunset. Inside the cavernous cargo hold, Allison's Delta sat strapped in place towards the middle of the plane while Brian and Allison themselves sat belted down in jump seats close to the cockpit where Yuri and a female copilot of Hispanic descent controlled the aircraft and kept it on course as they got to altitude, where in a few hours, they would be met by one of Warhawk Military Aviation's U.S.-based refueling aircraft for a final fill-up of go-juice in order to complete their transatlantic flight.

"So what do I do now?" asked Allison, idly swinging her legs. Brian handed her a padded blindfold.

"You catch as much sleep as you can. Power down, conserve your energy, and set up your body clock for American time. You need to be awake and alert once we're on American soil."

"What about you, then?"

"I'm going to sleep, too. You cyborgs may find it optional. I used to be in the SAS—in my day, this was a recommended procedure and more often than not a luxury."

Brian slipped on his own blindfold and leaned back in his jumpseat, folding his arms across his chest as he prepared to doze off for the next several hours.

Not one to doubt Brian's sound advice, Allison also put on her padded blindfold and began to relax, smiling to herself as she leaned her head on Brian's shoulder and get some sleep, their light snoring drowned out by the low-frequency hum of the jet engines on either side of the large cargo aircraft.

* * *

Sometime later, Allison slowly felt herself being gently shaken awake. Reaching her thumb up to her padded blindfold, she pushed it up to find Brian standing in front of her.

"Good morning, sunshine."

"Mmf. What time is it, Brian?"

"Just past 5:30 A.M. Eastern U.S. Time. We're going to land in New York in about two hours or so."

"Then why'd you wake me up _now_?"

"Because I want to show you something cool. We're about to meet with an airborne tanker to refuel mid-flight."

"That's nice..." replied Allison, ready to nod off back to sleep. "But I think I'll pass and just get those two hours of sleep."

"Yuri also has some coffee ready. Black, with lots of sugar, just the way you like it."

"...All right. Let's go see this thing."

The two McDonnells made their way to the cockpit, where Yuri greeted them with plastic mugs of black coffee heavily laced with sugar. His copilot was at the controls keeping the aircraft level.

"You are both just in time." said Yuri in accented English. "Look up."

Allison and Brian glanced out the windshield. Allison's eyes widened further when a Boeing KC-135 Stratotanker passed overhead, the extended refueling boom jutting from the aft section of the fuselage coming into view and then looming in front of them. An American voice came over the radio to greet them.

"Whiskey-Mike-Alpha Zero-One, this is Cookie Five-Zero; come in, over."

"Cookie Five-Zero, Whiskey-Mike-Alpha Zero-One copies." replied Yuri. "Good morning, Jonathan, over."

"Same to you, Yuri. You and Margarita doing all right?"

"It's been a long flight from Rome, Jonathan." replied the woman currently in control of the IL-76. "We could use some topping off."

"You ready to take delivery, then?"

"Ready when you are, Jon."

"All right, extending the boom."

The two massive airplanes matched airspeed as the refueling boom from the KC-135 began to extend towards a receptacle on top of the IL-76's fuselage. The tip locked into the receptacle, and in the cockpit of the IL-76, an indicator light came on as the digital readout for the fuel began to climb in value. Margarita keyed her microphone as she grinned before moaning in a sultry voice.

"_Ahhhhn, Que Rica!_ Mmm, no one does it like you, Jonathan!"

"Only the best for you, baby." replied Jonathan in a faux-macho voice resembling Patrick Warburton. For a moment, all was silent until Yuri, Margarita, Brian, and the crew of the KC-135 broke into laughter. Allison simply rolled her eyes with a small smile.

"_Dios Mio_, that was bad!" exclaimed Margarita when she finally regained composure, still grinning happily.

"That was the worst porn film ever." agreed Jonathan in jest. Yuri shook his head and turned to Brian and Allison.

"And now you see what transport pilots like us do for fun on long flight."

"You guys must get bored real easily, then." said Allison. "Sounds like what you guys need is an autopilot system and something to read."

"And miss staring at open sky for several hours?" asked Margarita mockingly. "I couldn't bear that!"

* * *

It was 7:30 A.M. Eastern U.S. Time when the IL-76 touched down at LaGuardia International Airport. At its slowest speed, it taxied off the runway towards an out-of-the-way hangar reserved for Warhawk Military Aviation aircraft. As they deplaned, a pair of Transportation Security Administration officials awaited them and ran their 'embassy' credentials as well as inspected their non-diplomatic luggage before subjecting them to rather thorough pat-downs, which Allison bristled at a little but put up with for the sake of less complications. The officials signed off on the two and stamped their passports and left the hangar. At this time, Allison's Delta was rolled out of the IL-76 onto the tarmac.

"All right, let's get rolling here." said Brian. "We have to go meet up with Cousin Tommy at the 42nd Precinct first and foremost."

"What address was that, again?" asked Allison, opening the door to her Delta and bringing up the SatNav unit.

"830 Washington Avenue, in the Bronx."

Allison made the necessary inputs, and after a moment or two, the route was displayed. "All right, I've got it up on the SatNav."

"You two take care, now." called Margarita from the ramp of the IL-76.

"You guys get some rest—thanks for flying us out." replied Brian.

Allison fired up the engine of the Delta as Brian eased himself into the front passenger's seat and strapped himself in. as he closed the door, Allison put the Delta into gear and drove out of the hangar to the nearest exit bringing them to the streets leading out of LaGuardia. As Allison fell in with New York City traffic just outside of airport, Brian noted that this was only her second time driving in America, and at that, a city where stop-and-go was the norm. However, with their many sundry bouts in and around Rome, Allison had become used to driving in city traffic, though the sound of idling diesel engines in her vicinity still made the hair on the back of her neck bristle with nervousness as she sought the quickest available escape route to get away from the source of the terrifying noise. At the moment, however, the majority of what Allison and her Delta had to deal with were a sea of New York cab drivers making pick-ups and drop-offs at the terminal, which was best described as organized chaos. Ahead of her and behind her, drivers aggressively competed for spots to let their passengers off or stop for new ones that were hailing them. The standard rules of civilized driving did not seem to apply here, and signaling intent to pull into a lane seemed optional as cab drivers cut each other off or went around one another aggressively, occasionally letting foul words and a middle finger fly to express their displeasure, and the sound of horns honking was regular enough to set a watch to. Through it all, Allison took the situation in stride, though at least once or twice, she honked her horn just to be part of the crowd.

Once she made her way to the highway, however, driving was a little less stressful as more space opened up allowing Allison to cruise at a brisk 70 miles per hour, keeping pace with the other cars around her that were also flouting the posted speed limit. The sound of a loud exhaust caught her attention as a glacier white 2004 Subaru Impreza WRX with a carbon fiber bonnet and boot lid came screaming in behind her at around 85 miles per hour. Recognizing the car immediately, a bit of jealousy welled up within Allison, feeling the need to defend her Delta's honor against this challenger as she moved over a lane and the WRX moved forward but kept pace with her. The two rally-bred cars stayed nose-and-nose, as if sizing one another up for a duel. Then, the passenger's side window on the WRX rolled down, prompting Allison to roll down her own window. Upon closer inspection, it was two young males around her age bracket who had taken interest in her car. Over the noise of the highway and their own engines, the young man in the passenger's seat holding a camcorder called out to Allison.

"Excuse me, is that a Lancia Delta HF Integrale?" called out the spiky-haired youth.

"Evoluzione II model!" replied Allison. "By the way, nice Impreza!"

"Thanks!" replied the driver.

"Hey, can you give us a fly-by and show off a little?" asked the young man with the camcorder.

"I have somewhere to get, is a rolling takeoff okay with you?" asked Allison in reply.

"Sure!" the passenger replied, thumbing the 'record' button. "Okay, rolling!"

"See you guys around!" replied Allison, flirtatiously winking at the camera before blowing them a kiss and waving before giving the Delta more throttle and pulling away like a shot as her own window went up.

"Cute girl with a sweet ride? Match made in heaven, man." commented the Impreza's driver.

"There was another dude riding with her. I think she's taken, bro." replied the passenger.

"Damn."

As Allison changed lanes up ahead to take the exit to merge onto I-87 North, Brian chided her a little.

"You really shouldn't tease those American boys. It's not sporting."

"Would you rather I have raced them down the highway? I know how much you hate that sort of thing."

"Point. Anyway, I doubt getting pulled over would be the fastest way to see Cousin Tommy."

* * *

Half an hour later with some traffic, Allison and Brian arrived at the 42nd Precinct building in the Bronx where they had first gone for Allison's field trial. Once Allison found a place to park, Brian fed the meter for an hour as they exited the Delta and made their way inside 42nd Precinct, where they approached a uniformed female receptionist.

"Excuse me, we're here to see Detective McDonnell." Brian stated.

"Do you have an appointment with him?" asked the receptionist, not looking up to acknowledge Brian and Allison's presence.

"Uh... I was under the assumption he was expecting us?" replied Brian, sheepishly remembering that he had not called his cousin in advance.

"Sir, I can't allow you to see him without an appointment."

"Oh, they have an appointment with me."

All three looked up to see Thomas McDonnell leaning against the door jamb of his office. He was looking at Brian and Allison rather seriously.

"Brian, Allison, step into my office, please. Hayner, that will be all."

"Understood, Detective." replied the receptionist, going back to her computer. The McDonnells all stepped into Tommy's office upstairs as the detective shut the door behind them. Closing the blinds to the large glass window for the office, he then took his place behind his mahogany desk, folding his hands atop one another and leaning back in his seat.

"Well then, my favorite cousins from across the Atlantic!" began the American McDonnell rather jovially. "It's been a while—what, almost a year since I last saw you guys?"

"Year and a half." replied Brian uneasily.

"That long? Damn, and I forgot about Allison's Christmas and birthday presents..." replied Tommy sheepishly. "I'm sorry, Allison, I promise I'll make it up to you."

"That's okay, Cousin Tommy. It's not a big deal." Allison reassured.

"Well I'm glad you think so; at least, it's not as big a deal as to why I'm talking to you both." Tommy said, changing to a more serious tone. "Brian, about 10 months after you and Allison were last here, three people came into my office."

"Ferro, Jean and Priscilla, right?"

"Yes. And they told me some very interesting things about the agency you work for."

"Such as?"

"Well for starters, you're not a consultant. You're an operator and field agent. A 'handler', as they told me. Is that the truth?"

"...Yes."

Tommy then turned to Allison. "Allison, you know the people I'm talking about, correct?"

"Yes, Cousin Tommy."

Tommy sighed. "They... they told me Brian is your handler. Is _that_ true?"

Allison leapt to her adoptive brother's defense. "Only if you put it in the terms that Jean would. I don't consider Brian my handler. To me, he is my partner and older brother. We watch each other's backs, Cousin Tommy. We place a lot of trust in each other, and I'm not expendable to him."

"Well on that note, I've been told there's more to you than what most people would think. In the terms that you're not 'normal'." said Tommy. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"I can explain-" began Brian before Tommy held up his hand to stop him.

"No, Brian. Let Allison explain for herself."

"What that means is that I am, for lack of a better term, a cyborg." said Allison bluntly. "Underneath the surface of what you see, my body is completely different. My bones are now composed of extremely strong yet lightweight composite materials. I have a lot of artificial muscle tissue that makes me as strong as the most pumped-up bodybuilders, allowing me to lift objects on my own that would take several physically-fit people to move. In addition to my artificial skeleton, parts of my body are ballistically protected and I have a few built-in life support systems that allow me to function with full combat effectiveness even with injuries that by all accounts are life-threatening to most people. I can get shot in the chest or head with standard ammunition and still continue whatever mission I am assigned with an acceptable degree of efficiency. Do you want me to go on?"

"No... I think I get the idea. It's just a lot to take in, that's all." replied Tommy, massaging his temples. "Dare I ask what kind of missions you have to do?"

"It really depends, Cousin Tommy. I fall into a second generation category that has girls and boys in the older teen year age range. Those who are chronologically younger than us generally do a lot of combat, whereas my generation has more specialization in different fields ranging from surveillance and reconnaissance to quick and dirty direct action missions against a specific target." replied Allison.

"Direct Action... that's spook speak for assassination, if I ever heard it." said Tommy. "What's your specialty, then?"

Allison smiled proudly here. "Combat driving and mobile attack. My missions typically involve getting VIPs from point A to B safely, providing an escape route for other team members, pursuing fleeing subjects, recovering any team's vehicle left in the field, and stuff like that."

"That _would_ explain your driving the last time I saw you."

"Not just my driving, but my marksmanship, too." added Allison. "I train with the steering wheel in one hand and a .45 in the other. How else was Carlos Santiago the only man alive when that Lexus of his finally came to a stop?"

"Point taken." replied Tommy with a weary look on his face. "Allison, please promise me you won't ever suffer from road rage."

"I promise, Cousin Tommy." replied Allison with a grin.

Brian then steered the conversation in a different direction. "Tommy, mate, I know this is a lot to take in, and there is probably a hell of a lot more questions you have. But right now, we came to you because my chief said you might have a way of helping us with finding two people who got into a toss-up with the Mafia and are probably now persons of interest at the least."

"I'm guessing this has to do with that shootout in Manhattan yesterday. You know those two personally?"

"Only in passing, Tommy. They work in the other section of my organization. We're being sent to get their arses out of the fire. Problem is, they haven't re-established contact, and they destroyed their phones to avoid being tracked via GPS. They obviously don't want to be found by the police, but _we_ need to find them and get them out of here. Lorenzo said that if you were following his instructions, you'd already have a means of helping us out on this."

"You guys are in luck, then. I have a little somethin' somethin' for you guys..."

Tommy reached under his desk and pulled out a silver Zero Halliburton premium slimline attache case and placed it on his desk. Upon lining up the 3-digit combination, he slid the latch switch and opened the briefcase to reveal $10,000 dollars in cash.

"Uh Tommy, I appreciate the offer, but I have an expense account..."

"Don't be a wiseass, Brian." Tommy chided. "This is compensation for the fellow who'll be helping find your people. He's good at finding people who can't or don't want to be found very quickly and in less than 24 hours. Private investigator, _very_ unlicensed, but he's the best there is if you're in a hurry."

"This bloke have a name?" asked Brian.

"His real name's Diego Zhao, but everyone who's met him calls him 'Rush'. You'll see why soon. I'm gonna set up a meet between you two and him at the Midnight Express Diner on Second Avenue over in Manhattan."

"Nothing like a neutral public location to set the mood." said Brian.

"Actually, it's because the two of you look like you could use coffee and something to eat." said Tommy. "You're both looking a little punked out from the flight over."

"Thanks for worrying about us, Cousin Tommy, but I don't think-" Allison said before her stomach growled audibly, causing her face to flush a bright red in embarrassment.

"Like I said, you should get something to eat." said Tommy with a smile. "He'll meet you in an hour and a half, that way you guys have some time to eat properly without rushing."

Brian turned to his younger sister. "Right then, Allison. Let's fire up the Quattro."

Allison looked at her older brother funny. "What?"

"-I mean, let's fire up the Delta. I'll be out shortly."

"For a moment there, I could've sworn you said 'Quattro'..." mumbled Allison as she spun her car keys on her finger while exiting the office. Brian stayed a little longer with his Cousin.

"Tommy, I'm sorry you had to find out this way."

"Why couldn't you just tell me, Brian? I would've kept my mouth shut. I was thinking that maybe you don't trust me."

"It's not that I don't trust you, Tommy. I just didn't want you to get too deeply involved."

"If you didn't want me to get involved, you wouldn't have come to me a year and a half ago willing to help with that little gang problem. Besides, I'm helping a good cause, aren't I? I'm more than willing to pass on information about Mafia activity as it might relate to the problems you guys are having in Italy if it means helping to stop terrorism in all its forms. For certain New Yorkers like me, the phrase 'never forget' takes on a certain meaning post 9/11."

"Tommy, you fight a different fight. You're dedicated to cleaning up the streets of gang crime, aren't you?"

"Brian, a lot has happened in the past year and a half. I'm going to be transferred to Organized Crime soon. Someone else is taking over for me from the gang crimes unit. As it is, I'll be in a better position to pass on any info I find out."

The two were interrupted by the sound of the Delta's horn being blown in the street in front of the precinct. It was time to go.

"We'll talk more when this is over, Tommy."

"I was hoping you'd say that. Now, get outta here."

* * *

"Enjoying your meal, Allie?" asked Brian.

"Brian, I'm having a medium-well Sirloin steak for breakfast. _Of course_ I am enjoying my meal. Life is good right this moment. It's _great_, in fact." replied Allison.

Brian simply chuckled as he lifted his cup of coffee to his lips and had another sip while his younger sister carved another sliver of beef from her sirloin steak as they waited for 'Rush' at the Midnight Express Diner in Manhattan. The Delta was parked just outside the enclosed glass area where they sat, allowing Allison to keep an eye on her car as she ate. While online reviews for the establishment at which they currently ate rate the diner as merely average with stories of terrible service, that did not seem to be the case today as a blonde waitress no older than twenty-five approached their table with a carafe of fresh java in her hand.

"Is everything all right over here?" she asked with a smile.

"May I just say that the food here is absolutely wonderful and that it's the first decent meal I've had in the last 12 hours?" said Allison after she swallowed her forkful of food.

"Well thank you, miss, I'll be sure to pass on your compliments to the cook." replied the waitress jovially before turning to Brian. "More coffee, sir?"

"Please."

Brian put down his cup as the waitress poured more of the hot caffeinated beverage until the level reached the brim of the cup. Nodding his appreciation, Brian picked up the sugar container and poured a few teaspoons into his cup as the waitress moved off to tend to the other customers.

On the other side of the restaurant, the little bell attached to the main entrance chimed as someone pushed the door open. An Asian man with short black hair wearing an open black leather bomber jacket, black leather gloves, and black jeans with low-cut boots walked in, and his presence did not go unnoticed by Allison, who tapped the sole of Brian's foot with the toe of her own as she scarfed down the remnants of her breakfast. She motioned with her chin over to the door where the Asian man stood, and Brian guessed that this was the man they were waiting for. He waved him over, and the man walked over to their table and sat down with them.

" 'Rush', I presume?" said Brian.

"That's what they call me. And you guys must be Brian and Allison. Tommy sent me."

"Right then. Before we get rolling on this, let's have a little chat to bring you up to speed..."

* * *

Elsewhere, Pietro and Elenora were making their way to the subway in order to find the number 6 train, which they would take until they reached Bleecker Street, whereupon they would transfer to the D train, taking them to their destination in Bensonhurst. They had holed up during the night at a cheap hotel, giving the pair time to rest, recover, and at least try to alter their appearance. With the help of Elenora, some painkiller, and a wet towel to bite on, Pietro removed the slug that was still slightly embedded under his skin and quickly cleaned the wound before bandaging it up properly. A good night's rest helped him recover, but the area was still a little tender in the morning.

Now, the pair fell in step with the crowd around them, Pietro now clean-shaven in contrast to his usual semi-beard, and his hair was now brown instead of its usual black while Elenora was now a fiery redhead. The pair walked to the 86 St Subway entrance and descended the stairs to the station, stopping at the MTA Metrocard vending machines.

As they passed through the turnstile, following close behind were a pair of men in nondescript clothing and sunglasses. The two kept a distance from the Section 1 agents as they followed them to the platform. When they saw their targets stop at behind the yellow line before the tracks, they moved in, reaching under their jackets for concealed handguns.

Pietro and Elenora bristled when they felt something poking their backs, mentally swearing when they realized they were being held at gunpoint in the midst of a crowd. One of the men behind them spoke, in English, just audibly enough for them to hear.

"No sudden movements. To the restrooms, both of yous."

With little choice in the matter, the two agents began to walk away from the platform, their minds racing to try and figure out a way, any way to get loose. Behind them, the Number 6 train blasted its horn as it came into the station, and with all the noise, Elenora and Pietro glanced at each other out without moving their heads and knew what they could try.

"NOW!"

The two whirled around on their captors and forced their pistols skyward as the thugs tried in vain to fire their weapons, whose rounds simply went into the ceiling as nearby New Yorkers began to scatter. Pietro managed to eject the magazine on his captor's Glock and kick it into the rushing crowd, leaving the man temporarily without ammunition. Elenora, meanwhile, managed to wrest her opponent's weapon from him and toss it onto the train tracks. Successfully managing to disarm their opponents, they disengaged and dashed for the number 6 train and dove inside just as the recorded voice announcing the closing of the doors came over the speakers.

"_Stand clear of the closing doors, please."_

A chime sounded twice as the doors closed, while on the platform, the mafia thug with the Glock stuffed a spare magazine into the grip of his pistol and released the slide, attempting to take more shots at his escaping prey before being taken down by NYPD officers. Aboard the train, Fermi and his partner sighed in relief as they departed the station, but both agreed to leave at the next stop. It was going to take longer to reach Elenora's uncle, after all.

* * *

"So two people, together. I see; looks like you guys have a valid reason for tagging along." said Rush after Brian explained the situation to him. More coffee had been ordered for the three in the duration, but their cups now sat nearly empty as they spoke.

"Judging by your car, I guess most of your jobs only have enough room for either your employer or whoever you're sent to pick up." said Brian, looking at the 2007 Pontiac Solstice GXP parked outside. "Why not a different vehicle?"

"Generally, my jobs take me places others can't go, and I mean that in the physical sense, as well. 'Sam' is designed uniquely for operating here in NYC."

Allison perked up when she heard the name. "You named your car, too?"

Rush looked at the brunette with a small smile that had a trace of melancholy in it. "Yes. She's named for someone who was very important to me. I take it you named your car as well?"

"Well, not the Lancia Delta out there, at least not yet. I've been so busy constantly tweaking her to run faster that I never stopped to think of a name, but I have an '85 Corolla GT-S with a twincharged MR2 engine named 'Megumi' that's built for drifting and a Mazdaspeed MX-5 named 'Shirley' back home."

"I can certainly understand the tweaking part. But seeing as you guys are working for an acronym-ized intelligence agency that I'm not supposed to know much about, I take it that Delta goes into some hairy situations. Bulletproofed?"

"Rated up to 7.62x54R, and I've got an X-net launcher to tangle up any pursuers." said Allison proudly. "What about 'Sam'?"

"Let's just say that she's got a lot of features you won't find in any showroom anywhere." said Rush with a smirk. "Shall we go?"

"As soon as I pay the bill." said Brian, picking up the receipt and heading to the cashier. Behind him, Rush and Allison left their seats and headed out the door to their respective vehicles as Brian caught up with the two drivers. As Rush turned on his Solstice, he heard chatter on the police scanner that was something of interest.

"_All units near 86 St station, we have shots fired on the subway platform, be advised, two suspects from the Verino family have been apprehended, but two persons of interest are still missing, presumably at large. Description of missing persons are one white female with short-cropped red hair of slim build and about 5'5" wearing business casual attire; plus one white male with brown hair, tall build around 6 feet also wearing business casual attire. They were last seen fleeing the station aboard the Number 6 train. All units along this route be on the lookout for the two persons of interest, over."_

Rush turned to Allison and Brian. "Think it might be them?"

"Probably." said Brian, thinking on his feet. "It could very well be that they tried to change their appearance but still were almost caught by the mob guys chasing them."

Brian's Blackberry Storm then vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out to see a message from Priscilla. He scanned it quickly before putting it away.

"News from back home?" asked Rush.

"More like some additional helpful information. Turns out Elenora has an uncle living in Bensonhurst. You know where that is, Rush?"

"That's all the way in Brooklyn. I know how the train gets there. They were probably going to take the number 6 all the way to Bleecker Street and transfer to the D train for a straight shot to Bensonhurst. We'll have to look along that route and see if we can catch up with them. Worse comes to worst, we find them in Bensonhurst where this uncle of hers is. Let's move. That was only two minutes' drive from here."

"Y-G-B-S-M." grumbled Allison, seemingly nonsensically, but Brian chuckled, knowing what the acronym stood for.

Allison and Brian swiftly entered the Delta and kicked off the engine, following Rush as he pulled away from the curb. As Rush began driving, he felt a strange sort of niggling presence in the back of his mind, but even though he checked his rearview mirror, he couldn't spot a tail of any sort save for Allison and Brian following closely behind him. But time and again, this gut feeling which he privately referred to as his 'mojo' was usually right about something sooner or later. It meant trouble that he would have to deal with in the future, but he had been in many tight spots before. A Wilson Combat Professional Model 9mm semi-automatic sat nestled in a concealed inside-the-waistband holster, and behind his seatback was something from his days with the FDNY.

In less than the estimated two minutes it took to travel several blocks to the subway station where the shooting had taken place. Several police cruisers with their 'gumball lights' flashing and strobing were parked alongside the curb as some curious New Yorkers milled about the scene. Brian and Allison scanned the crowd for anyone matching the description of the currently-disguised Section One pair, but to no avail. Rush pulled up next to Brian's window and spoke.

"There's not much chance of them being here anymore. Next stop is down the road at 77th and Lexington."

"All right, we'll follow you." said Allison, releasing the handbrake as Brian rolled his window up, Rush pulling out in front of them. For some reason, Rush felt his mojo tingling again. Perhaps what triggered it was the presence of a man with a cellphone on the street corner talking specifically about him.

"Yeah, I just saw him. He and some other people in a red car are heading towards 77 and Lexington. Get 'em before they can get there."

Up the road, Rush and the McDonnells just crossed 82nd street when two cargo vans and two large moving trucks suddenly boxed both vehicles in a moving diamond. Before Allison or Rush could react to the threats, the passenger vans' sliding doors opened and assault rifles were aimed at both cars. None of them fired, but Allison was already preparing to bring Brian out of the line of fire despite the bulletproofing in the windows of her Delta. In front of Rush, the front moving van's loading door opened, revealing a masked man with a posterboard. It simply read:

FOLLOW US

"I could take these bastards out if they start firing." said Allison, glancing around her vehicle. All she would need was her Kimber and one magazine to clear the way.

"I say we follow Rush's lead on this. Let's not have a shootout in the middle of the street." suggested Brian. Obeying her brother, Allison continued driving, following Rush and the vans towards Central Park. They were guided towards an area of the park that was suspiciously-deserted, until they noticed other men were guarding the area, careful to keep any prying eyes away from the vicinity. The group finally came to a stop in a tunnel under a concrete footbridge , where they were ordered to shut off their engines. The gunmen holding the three captive ordered them out at gunpoint, and neither Allison, Brian, or Rush made any sudden moves as they were patted down for any weapons, though as soon as the thugs found Rush's sidearm, one of them removed it from its holster and dangled it in the Asian man's face while clucking his tongue, as if scolding a child. A voice suddenly attracted Rush and the McDonnells' attention.

"Well well, if it isn't Rush- and he's brought some friends, I see!"

"And you are?" asked Rush, facing the short-haired newcomer in black suit and sunglasses.

"I guess my reputation fails to precede me. I'm Nick Verino." answered the young and arrogant man. "And what I'm here to do is... persuade you, shall we say, from going any further with your objective to find the rats who spied on our deal the other day."

"How do you even know that's what I'm trying to do?" asked Rush. "I could simply be out for a drive, for all you know."

"Hah! Get real, Rush. Someone's paying you money to keep these people from getting into trouble. Might it be these two here?" queried Verino.

"That's none of your damn business, Verino." replied Rush. "They're just people who happened to get caught up in your bullshit."

"I highly doubt that." said Verino dismissively, eyeing the aluminium briefcase in the backseat. "Hey, you. What's in the briefcase?" he barked at Brian.

"Well, it _was_ Rush's payment for helping us, but if it's enough to get you gentlemen to leave us alone, we can work something out." said Brian calmly.

"And pray tell, how much are you paying him to help you?"

"Ten grand. You can count it yourself, if you wish."

Verino broke into derisive laughter. "_Ten grand?_ Ha ha ha! Ten grand! That's a cheap price if I ever heard it! I'm afraid you're gonna need more than ten thousand measly dollars to bail you out of this jam, friend."

"Fair enough." Brian shot back. "We have more. Allison, get _the rest of the money_."

"Understood." Allison turned to the man aiming a MAC-10 at her head. "Excuse me, but do you mind? I need to get to the boot."

"The _what_?"

"The b- the trunk lid, sorry. I forgot you Americans don't speak the Queen's English."

"Ask me if I care, you limey bitch. Get a move on."

The thug nudged her in her side with the muzzle of his Ingram as she walked to the back of the Delta, opening the tailgate. She reached towards the blue Diplomatic bag and reached inside quickly before withdrawing her hand as a barely-audible click sounded and she turned around to face the thug behind her.

"Catch."

Unconsciously, the thug forgot about his gun to grab hold of the object suddenly tossed to him, giving Allison the precious little time necessary to withdraw her Kimber from its pocket in the bag, slide a magazine in, and chamber a round as she shoved the muzzle into the thug's chest and fired twice, dropping him as the primed smoke grenade rolled out of his hands and onto the walkway, spewing smoke all over the area. With the distraction, Brian freed himself of his captor with a punch to the throat, allowing him to escape as he ducked down the moment the area erupted in gunfire. For his part, Rush also was able to snatch back his Wilson Combat pistol and open up on the thugs in the immediate area, dropping them with the rounds he had in his loaded magazine. Back at the Delta, Brian grabbed the first available weapon he could grip from the diplomatic bag in the confusion of the smoke and pulled out Allison's Tavor Compact, slamming home a 30-round PMAG and locking in the first round as he started laying down fire, dispatching additional Verino family lackeys that came running towards the tunnel. As Allison started running out of ammunition in the magazine of her Kimber, she started firing one-handed as she reached into the diplomatic bag for more magazines, which were accidentally grabbed with the addition of Brian's Kimber Stainless as the spare magazines skittered onto the ground in front of her as the chaos of the gun battle continued. Soon, she was firing guns akimbo with no problems as Brian reloaded the Tavor. In a few seconds, the firefight was over, but Rush was now facing down Verino, who had a Glock aimed at his face. Rush's hand, though, was reaching behind the driver's seat of the Solstice.

"Doesn't matter that you dropped my men, Rush. I still have the drop on you."

"Well, in a second, I'll have the _chop_ on you."

"What the-"

The sound of metal hitting stone was all the warning Brian and Allison had when they turned around to see Verino backed up against the tunnel wall, his Glock cut in half as Rush's old fireman ax barely avoided taking the mobster's head off.

"H-holy shit man, you nearly killed me!" stammered Verino.

"And I will unless you get your ass out of here." said Rush, pulling his ax away from the wall, giving Verino the prompt to run away. However, before he could exit the tunnel, his head was punched through by a .45ACP slug, and Rush whirled around to see Allison holding her emptied and smoking Kimber Custom TLE, having handed Brian's sidearm back to him.

"That wasn't necessary." said Rush, his voice laced with tension.

"Yes, it was." replied Brian. "This was supposed to be a quieter affair. No one aside from you and Tommy is supposed to know that me and Allison are here. If this Verino mob knows that another party is looking for Fermi and Gabrielli, they're going to step things up, making our job more difficult."

Police sirens now permeated the air, and Rush had a decision to make. He placed his fireman's ax back into its storage place and reloaded his Wilson Combat Professional Model as he got into 'Sam' and started her up.

"I'll lead the police one way, you two go the other. We'll meet up somewhere once I've lost the cops."

"How will we stay in touch?" asked Brian. Rush tossed him a small and cheap prepaid mobile phone in response.

"I'll call you when I've gotten away. You guys wait a few minutes until you hear the sirens fade. Then leave in the other direction."

"Got it. See you later."

Rush placed the Pontiac Solstice into gear and peeled out of the tunnel at high speed. As the sound of the sirens began to fade to the other direction slightly, Brian turned to Allison.

"Well, we better deal with the bodies. The cargo vans should have plenty of room inside them."

"Got it. I'll make sure to get rid of any identification, as well." replied Allison, eagerly searching the pockets of the nearest body.

"I'm sure you will." quipped Brian, rolling his eyes as he set to work on other nearby bodies, starting with Nick Verino's.

* * *

With police sirens wailing in his ear, Rush poured the coal to Sam as the black two-seat roadster roared out of Central Park and onto West 59th Street, with several NYPD cruisers chasing after him. He shifted up a gear, the turbocharged 2.0L Ecotec engine under the hood shoving power to the rear wheels as he outpaced the squad cars chasing him. Weaving in and out of traffic earned him much angry honking from nearby civilians and certainly startled more than a few typical NYC pedestrians crossing the street despite the 'Don't Walk' signal. Reaching the intersection of 59th and 2nd Avenue, Rush tapped an icon on the console-mounted multi-function touch screen, and in the rear of the Solstice, a small panel slid back to reveal a pair of outlets shaped like the jets of a powerboat, out of which spewed extremely-viscous 10W-60 motor oil. The oil was dispensed for no more than a few seconds before Rush slid Sam's tail out to the left as he turned right onto 2nd Ave in a full opposite-lock drift. The police cars chasing him attempted to make the same turn, but were quickly spun out when they reached the surprise skidpad Rush had left behind. His herd of pursuers thinned, he hung a fast left on East 58th street, and then another left on the onramp for the Queensboro bridge. As soon as the turn straightened out, Rush floored the gas pedal, and Sam rocketed forward as he guided her through traffic, hurtling across the Queensboro Bridge at speeds quickly blowing past 70 miles per hour. Trying to make it to the Queens side of the bridge was going to be difficult, however, as Rush saw more NYPD cruisers in his rear-view mirror, apparently having called in reinforcements, and he could also see more red and blue flashing lights on the other side of the bridge, indicating a potential roadblock up ahead.

"New York's finest coming to play, Sam." said Rush to his vehicle. "Let's show them what we've got and prove you can take a hit."

Rush shifted up a gear and pinned the gas pedal to the firewall, the speedometer quickly reaching 100 miles per hour as he sped headlong into the roadblock up ahead. Police officers armed with AR-15 carbines and shotguns took aim as Rush approached. At twenty meters, they opened fire, aiming for his engine block, but each shot simply appeared to at best scratch the paint and cause a few spiderwebs in the glass of the vehicle.

"The hell is that thing made out of?" shouted one officer. "Fucking Unobtanium or some shit?"

At ten meters, officers began to scatter as Rush, ducking his head down, plowed Sam through a section of the roadblock, shoving a pair of Crown Victoria Police Interceptors that were twice the weight of his Solstice out of the way as he continued driving towards Queens. As the police got over their shock and began to continue chasing him, Rush heard the clatter of train wheels on tracks to his left and saw the R train breezing by as it passed Queensbridge Park. Seeing his chance to escape, Rush swung out to the right-most lane and timed the manner in which the support beams of the bridge breezed by before swinging Sam's nose 180 degrees and charged directly toward the concrete divider, pressing a button to activate dual full-automatic 12-gauge shotguns which let loose a torrent of FRAG-12 HE, 00 Buckshot, and Flechette rounds in a maelstrom of destruction that knocked a few barriers sideways, creating an ad-hoc jump, and even eating away some of the metal on the steel supports of the bridge. As the car caught air and squeezed through one of the widened gaps left by the shot-up bridge beams, four guides extended from the undercarriage as Rush and 'Sam' plowed through the protective chain-link fence and guardrails bordering the tracks and landed onto the rails, fully connecting when Rush lined up Sam straight with the tracks. The guides lifted Solstice off the ground as a busbar extended towards the third rail, providing power to the electric motors driving small wheels mounted in the guides. The police terminated the chase as they saw him slip away back towards Manhattan. As Rush went underground, he palmed the St. Christopher medallion hanging from his rearview mirror.

"Keep watching over me, Sam." said Rush. "This isn't over yet. Not by a long shot."

* * *

Back in Manhattan, Allison and Brian were already well away from Central Park even though they didn't hear any sirens approaching. The Delta cruised with the flow of traffic along Broadway, passing through the theater district with its many live stage performances being advertised everywhere they looked.

"Well, at least we got out of there without being seen by the police." noted Brian as the brakes were applied again. "Given, of course, that we took out time with the bodies."

"Glad we did." replied Allison, patting the bulge in the right front pocket of her jeans. "Those guys had a good fifteen grand, all told!"

"Yeah, well don't blame me if you get haunted by ghosts while you sleep." deadpanned Brian. "Vengeful spirits have issues with people looting their corpses."

"Please. I think I have more to worry about from the _Guardia di Finanza_ than the ghosts of miffed mobsters." retorted Allison. Passing another theater from which music emanated, Allison took a glance at the advertised show.

"Thoroughly Modern Millie..."

Brian noted Allison's lingering look at the theater and the poster on the box office and smiled.

"Would you like to see a show when we're done here, Allison?"

"Well, we don't have to..." replied the younger McDonnell shyly. "Just kind of interested, that's all."

"Give it a think or two, Allison. Cousin Tommy wants to spend some time with us after we've sent Fermi and Gabrielli safely on their way."

"I see." noted Allison. "You think he's still upset that we never told him what we do in the first place?"

"I imagine he is. You didn't say it outright, but I think he already knows that if it comes to it, you'll die to protect me; That probably doesn't sit very well with him."

"Are you going to talk to him about it?" asked Allison, switching lanes.

"When this is all done, yes." Brian replied, staring ahead. Suddenly, the cheap prepaid flip phone that Rush gave them rang with its tinny default ringtone, and Brian picked it up immediately.

"McDonnell speaking."

"Where are the two of you?" asked the underworld finder.

"We're currently cruising past the Theater District on Broadway. You?"

"I'm on my way to The Garden. Meet me there."

"Wait, Rush-" began Brian, who was then cut off as the line went dead.

"I was gonna ask him what 'The Garden' was." groused the Irishman. "We're still a bunch of bloody tourists in this town."

"Well, let's see if he ends up at Madison Square Garden. Pretty sure that's what he means." replied Allison, fiddling with the GPS unit mounted on the left-most side of the windshield.

"That _would _make sense, wouldn't it?" said Brian sheepishly. "Couldn't even figure that out for myself..."

"Getting old, Brian. Your mind is starting to slip a little." quipped Allison with a playful smirk as her adoptive brother defended himself.

"Hey, I'm only thirty, and I look a lot younger than that. I want you to look at my face and tell me that I look like a thirty-year old."

As they were at a stoplight, Allison went ahead and complied with her handler's request and took a moment to study Brian's face. She noticed her handler had a very youthful look about him, as if he weren't all that much older than she. His lean, rather unblemished face showed little sign of age, at most a slight hint of stubble along his jawline. Unconsciously, she felt her face heat up the longer she stared at him, a strange feeling welling up in her stomach that was either indigestion or something much more. Her face reddened until she finally gave Brian an answer.

"Sorry, Brian. I want to say you do, but to tell you the truth, I don't think you look thirty." blurted out Allison, a serious blush on her face. "Besides, I can't lie to you. I feel a little sick just thinking about that."

_Must be the conditioning kicking in,_ thought Brian. _Yet when she told me to shut up and keep shooting back in Rivalba, nothing happened. Wonder what it takes to trigger a corrective reaction?_

"Don't force yourself, lass." replied the elder McDonnell with a smile, ruffling his younger sister's hair. "Now if you'll indulge me vanity a little, how do you think I look?"

Allison blushed brightly again as the light turned green and she got with the flow of traffic. "I think you look... good."

"Do you think I look _handsome_?" teased the 'Belfast Bastard'.

"Y-yes..." answered Allison, positively red in the face. Brian laughed a little and rubbed Allison's right shoulder.

"Ha ha! Relax, Allison, relax. I'm just having a bit of fun with you, is all. All right then, let's get to Madison Square Garden."

* * *

5 minutes later, Allison pulled the Delta in behind Sam parked outside Brother Jimmy's Burger Shack across from the Madison Square Garden complex. The fratello walked into the restaurant to find Rush sitting down to a lunch of a bacon cheeseburger and tater tots. At this, Allison looked towards Brian, who gave her a silent nod, and the cyborg went to order lunch for the both of them as well. The Irishman, meanwhile, went to sit down with the unlicensed investigator.

"I see you gave the rozzers the slip." said Brian.

"I know the city better than they do. It was easy, when combined with Sam." replied Rush.

"Noticed a lot of scuff marks on her when Allison and I came in. You run into trouble?"

"Try a road block's worth of 12-gauge shotguns and AR-15 carbines."

Brian was stunned. "And all your car has to show for it is a few scuffs and scratches? What the bloody _hell_ is the bodywork made of, and where can we get that for the Delta?"

"My own personal triple-layer polymer coating protects the bodywork and glass on Sam. I know it'll bounce away rifle, shotgun, and pistol rounds, but if I run into anti-tank weaponry, she's still nimble enough to dodge. I have yet to encounter anything above 7.62 NATO, though. Hope I don't have to."

At that point, Allison joined the men, having arrived with two meals similar to that which Rush was currently dining on. Brian took his basket and unwrapped his burger, looking at what had been piled on.

"Oh good, you got the works." Brian noted.

"A good burger should have all the fixings at least the first time out. You taught me that, Brian." replied Allison, popping a tater tot into her mouth and then smiling as she savored the taste.

As they got to eating, Allison asked Rush about their next move.

"So, do we go to Bensonhurst next?"

"From a strategic standpoint, that's the best idea to go with. However, we'll need to split up. You guys watch the address where your pals are going for any sign of them, I'll scour all the routes that lead to Bensonhurst, seeing as I know the city better." stated Rush.

"Sounds like a solid plan." replied Allison. "By the way, you have any trouble with the police?"

"Nothing Sam's bodywork and my driving couldn't deal with. And changing license plates certainly doesn't hurt."

Allison looked at 'Sam' outside and noticed that the license plate on the scuffed-up Pontiac Solstice had indeed changed from a vanity plate reading 'SAM' to a more befuddling '54AMM1'. Presumably, this plate had not yet been used by Rush.

The three ate in silence for a few moments as Allison looked at the Solstice parked in front of her Delta. Then, she turned to Rush with a question.

"Uh, Mr. Rush?"

"Yes?"

"Is there a story behind Sam, exactly?"

The question set off an awkward silence as Rush put down his burger and stared out the window a few seconds. Brian gently elbowed Allison, and as she turned to face him, he shook his head disapprovingly, prompting Allison to turn back to Rush.

"You know what, it's okay—if it's not something you want to talk about, you don't have to."

Rush turned back to Allison and waved his hand to clear her of any guilt. "It's fine; It's just that no one's really asked me about that seriously. To answer your question, yeah... Sam's got a history behind her..."

The next few minutes were spent with Rush pouring out a chunk of his personal life and past. He told them of his past as a bike messenger named Diego Zhao (which helped him learn the geography of New York City), then as an FDNY Firefighter. He told the McDonnells of his past relationship with a woman named Maggie Flynn and her daughter, Samantha, and how he often took Samantha to school in the very same Pontiac Solstice parked out front, and how Samantha would joke about Rush simply hanging onto the car until she was old enough to drive. He revealed how one night, he and Maggie left Samantha with a babysitter for a night out on the town, only to find Maggie's apartment engulfed in flames upon their return. Rush also revealed the story of how he went into the fire with no equipment despite protests from the hook and ladder company on-scene, and how he had found Samantha hiding in a closet. They attempted to get back out, but as they made for the exits, the floor collapsed beneath them, and that was the end of it. When Rush came to, he was hooked up to oxygen, considered lucky to be alive. Samantha, however, had not been so fortuitous. In the months to follow, Rush would lose his job as well as Maggie, leaving him only with his skills and his car. He went underground, even in the literal sense, and eventually became the person to find if someone was lost and the clock was ticking.

When the story had ended, Allison and Brian were rendered speechless. Then, the young cyborg offered her condolences, unsure as to what else to do.

"Rush, I'm so sorry to hear about Samantha... I shouldn't have brought up something so personal."

"Don't worry about it." replied Rush. "Samantha's death is the reason I keep doing what I do. This job has people appeal to three things- my wallet, my heart, and my gut, in no order of importance. I make a living off of this job, but I don't always have to collect on a paycheck."

"You do _pro bono_ work?" asked Brian.

"Sometimes." answered Rush. "Especially if it involves kids. But whatever the case, I never bring up money first."

"You're doing a job for a government, Rush. It's only right you get compensated somehow." replied Brian.

"Well, I better get back on the clock, then." finished Rush, crumpling his burger wrapper. "You guys head to the address; I'll search around en route in case they're not there yet."

"And we'll call if they're already there." said Allison.

* * *

Meanwhile, at 1795 78th Street in Bensonhurst, two elderly gentlemen and two younger men sat at a dining table playing poker, looking to outfox each other with the superior hand. A colorful stack of poker chips sat in their midst, all of them having gone 'all in'. After a tense few moments of staring one another down, the confident younger men went first.

"Two pairs." revealed a young man with two fours and two nines.

"Full house, read 'em and weep." said the other, showing three tens and two fives.

"You can't beat me, boys. Straight. Flush." retorted a balding, rotund and stocky man, laying down a 6,7,8,9, and 10 of clubs. All eyes the turned to the remaining man. "Got anything, Al?"

"Maybe." smiled the gradually-graying man across the table as he laid down his hand, revealing a 10, Jack, King, Queen, and Ace, all Diamonds. "Royal Flush."

The others at the table groaned in disappointment, all of them having been beaten as 84-year-old Alfonso Gabrielli raked in all the poker chips in the center of the table while the other men placed their cards in the middle to be shuffled by the man who had the straight flush.

"You know something, Al? I dunno how ya do it, but none of us can't win nothin' when we play poker with you. This shit's startin' to get old." complained 85-year old former mafia don Benito 'Beans' Bagnanno.

"Just be thankful you ain't playing for money, Beans. I'd-a cleaned you out a long time ago." retorted Alfonso. "Frankly, I'm surprised you still remember how to play. Ain't you got that **old-timer's** disease?"

"I ain't entirely gone, Al. From what I've noticed, I only start lapsing into Corsican when I haven't had a _Fiadone_ in a long while."

"Boys?" called a twenty-something blonde woman from the kitchen. "The _antipasto _is ready!"

"We'll be right there, Trinity!" replied Beans before the doorbell suddenly rang.

"I'll get it, Beans. You and the boys go help your granddaughter."

Alfonso went to answer the door and looked into the peephole, surprised to find who was waiting on the other side- it was his favorite niece and a companion of hers, neither of whom he had expected to show up at his doorstep. Opening the door, he greeted the new visitors.

"_Ciao, Zio Alfonso!_" greeted the young woman.

"Elenora? My goodness, if it isn't my favorite niece!" cheered Alfonso in response, hugging his niece. "I see you changed your hair-And who's this young man with you?"

"Ah, Pleased to meet you, Signor Gabrielli. I'm Pietro Fermi- I work with Elenora." said the woman's partner, shaking the older man's hand.

"Who is it, Al?" called Beans from the kitchen.

"Make room for two more, Beans! My niece and her friend are paying me a visit!"

Turning back to Elenora and Pietro, the elder Gabrielli ushered the two Section One agents into his home.

"Come on in, you two. We're sitting down to the beginning of lunch." said Alfonso, letting Elenora and Pietro inside. Elenora immediately turned to her partner.

"You go sit down with my uncle and his friends. I think someone might need help in the kitchen."

"But-"

"Sit, Pietro. I'll help bring the food out."

Knowing better than to argue, Pietro went to join Alfonso and Beans at the table, feeling a bit useless. Alfonso, meanwhile, wasted no time introducing the young man he'd barely met to his friend.

"Beans, this is Pietro Fermi. He works with my niece, Elenora. Pietro, this is Benito 'Beans' Bagnanno, an old friend of mine, we go waaay back."

"Nice to meet you, Signor Bagnanno." greeted Pietro, shaking Beans' hand firmly, getting the same response in return.

"_Signor_? You must be from the old country, huh? Which part?" asked Beans.

"Rome, sir."

"Rome? Good place, nice and centralized, and you don't have to worry too much about getting mixed up with those _Camorristas _and Sicilians with the mob, or those Padanians from the north."

"Actually, we have to worry about the Padanians the most." replied Pietro. "Most of their attacks have increased in Rome."

"You government-types must have it rough." noted Beans, catching Pietro off guard.

"Excuse me?"

"Don't play dumb, r_agazzo_." said Beans. "I used to be a mafia don- you don't get there without knowing how to read people. As soon as I saw you walk in, I figured you were probably a cop or something."

"And I already know Elenora works a public security job, so I figured you probably do, as well." added Alfonso. "In fact, you're carrying when you really shouldn't be right now, aren't you?"

"Nothing escapes you, Signor Gabrielli." replied Pietro, flashing the SIG tucked into his waistband holster. "Sorry for bringing weapons into your home, but Elenora and I are currently in a bit of a jam."

"I had a feeling. Elenora rarely ever visits, but if she was going to, she usually calls ahead. I have a feeling you two are involved in something big."

"Got that right. We had to come here because we needed a safe place to make a call back to our chief and let him know we're alive."

"This wouldn't have anything to do with the Verino Mob, would it?" asked Beans offhand.

"Actually it does... you've heard about them?"

"Bunch of upstarts looking to get in good with the heavy hitters back in Italy. Those scumbags deal in guns, Heroin, and human trafficking. I hear a lot of kids are involved in that last part—makes me sick, that they'd willingly do that stuff to children." spat Beans.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Trinity, Elenora, and Beans' younger companions were getting the plates ready for the _antipasto_ while the main courses of lasagna and Ziti casserole baked towards their finished state.

"I don't believe we've met." said Trinity towards Elenora. "I'm Trinity Bagnanno. The fat old guy in the living room is my grandpa."

"Elenora Gabrielli. As you might guess, the other elder gentleman's my uncle." replied the Section One Agent, shaking Trinity's free hand with her own.

"Nice to meet you, Elenora! I noticed you have a bit of an accent. Are you from Italy?"

"Yes, actually. I wanted to surprise my uncle, but I didn't know he had guests over..."

"Don't worry about it, we cook too much for ourselves, anyway."

The two young women chatted as they continued setting up for lunch, and soon, the occupants of Alfonso Gabrielli's town house sat down to a nice meal.

* * *

It was about half an hour later when Allison and Brian arrived in the Delta at the address given to them by Priscilla's e-mail.

"Here it is. 1795 78th Street." said Brian, looking at the house.

"So what, do we just knock on the door and see if they're there?" asked Allison.

"We should establish contact, first. If they're not there, we don't want to raise any sort of suspicion. Let me talk to Priscilla real quick."

Brian found Priscilla on the contacts list of his Blackberry Storm and dialed the number immediately. Halfway across the world, it was around 5 in the afternoon when Priscilla picked up her office line.

"Meleori."

"Priscilla? Brian. Allison and I are at the address you provided, but we don't know definitively if Fermi and Gabrielli are there. We have one of Tommy's people working with us who knows the city better scouring all possible routes going into Bensonhurst to this very location, but since we're here, we need to go check. I don't want to do anything that might seem suspicious."

"Good news about that, Brian. Gabrielli made a call earlier to Draghi himself, and now they're expecting an Irishman and his little sister to show up in a red Lancia any time soon." replied Priscilla with a grin Brian could easily envision on the other end of the line.

"Excellent, Pris. Looks like we're knocking on the door, then."

Brian ended the call and motioned for Allison to lead the way, smiling as he gestured towards the house. The two exited the Delta and secured the car behind them as they walked up the stoop and right up to the door.

Inside, Trinity and Pietro had gone back into the kitchen to fetch the main course, leaving Elenora, Beans and his men, and Alfonso at the table. There was a knock at the door, prompting the female Section One agent to excuse herself from the table and go to the door. Looking through the window and then the peephole, she was surprised to find Brian and Allison at the doorstep less than an hour after her call.

"Well, you two are certainly here fast." said Elenora as she greeted the two.

"Dividing and conquering with the help of a local tends to expedite things. Just need to pay him, now." replied Brian. "We gotta call him up and let him know we're with you guys now."

"Can you trust this local? How do you know he's not working with the mob?" asked Elenora, ushering Brian and Allison inside.

"Three things- he comes recommended by my cousin, who while a police officer, has used his services before when red tape got in the way. Second, he helped us out of a jam in Central Park with the Verino mob when they got the drop on us while looking for you. Third, he led the cops away right afterwards using one _hell_ of a modified Pontiac Solstice." explained Brian, as he and Allison walked with Elenora towards the dining room.

"A Pontiac Solstice? Son, you wouldn't be talking about a fellow named 'Rush', would you?" asked Beans, having overheard the third bit of Brian's explanation.

"Yes, actually. And you are-?"

"Oh, where are my manners?" said Elenora, starting to gesture to the men seated around the table. "Brian, this man you just spoke to is Mr. Benito Bagnanno. He's a friend of this man next to him, my uncle Alfonso. Zio Alfonso, Mr. Bagnanno, these two are some more of my co-workers, Brian McDonnell and his partner, Allison."

"Pleasure to meet you gentlemen." replied Brian, shaking hands with the two.

"Your accent-" noted Beans as Brian took his hand away. "You Irish?"

"Raised _Northern_ Irish, but technically half-British, too." replied Brian. "Now, you know Rush, as well?"

"That I do." replied Beans. "He saved my life once. Kept me alive to turn state's on the Deluzzi family. That was more or less when I wanted out of the game... I was also starting to develop my 'old-timer's' problem at the time- I didn't reboot and start making sense until he managed to get me a _fiadone_. It's not such a big deal now, but every so often, it... it gets a little worse. That's why I'm still trying to remember what I can whenever I can."

" 'Old-timer's' disease?" asked Allison.

"He means Alzheimer's disease, Allison. Definitely one of the worse things out there to be afflicted with." explained Brian.

"Oh."

"Hey, don't you start feeling sorry for me, now." said Beans. "Besides, since you two are here, you might as well enjoy some lunch with us."

"That's right." added Alfonso. "The two of you dropped in right after the _antipasto_. How does Baked Ziti and Lasagna sound to you folks?"

"Oh, I don't want to impose." said Brian. "Actually, we just had burgers and tater tots over at Brother Jimmy's."

"Consider it an early dinner, then?" suggested Alfonso. "Besides, your partner there's looking a little thin in the skin."

"Whoa, no need to trouble yourself on _my_ account!" said Allison, waving her hands in apology.

"Nonsense, there's plenty to go around; a growing girl like you needs to eat!"

Allison felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Brian nodding his assent.

"Go ahead, Allison. I still need to call Rush."

As Allison went to join the others at the dining table, Brian pulled out the prepaid phone Rush had given him and stepped out onto the stoop to make his call.

On the other end of the line, Rush had just proceeded onto the Brooklyn Bridge when his in-dash console displayed that he was receiving a call.

"You've got Rush."

"Rush, it's Brian. We found our people at the address. Wanna come on over and wrap this up?"

"I'll be there soonest."

"By the way, an old friend of yours is here. Older bloke by the name of 'Beans' Bagnanno? Sound familiar?"

"_Very_ familiar. How's he doing? He speaking Corsican?"

"English, mate. He seems to be doing well. Why not stop by for a little and catch up?"

"I'll be there in a few minutes."

Brian ended the call and clasped the clamshell phone shut, turning around to head inside. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck prick up, and he whirled around, reaching for his Kimber as he scanned for any threats. Seeing none, however, he shook off any strange feelings and retreated inside the house, unaware of a black Cadillac Catera inconspicuously parked at the corner up the street with someone standing at one of its windows.

"See? That's the place where I saw those two go!" said a nervous, skinny man to the men inside the Cadillac.

"You did pretty good, Joey. Here's somethin' fer yer troubles." replied the driver, handing the man a fifty-dollar bill. The skinny man ran off, and the driver turned to his passenger.

"Call the boys. We're gonna end this shit tonight."

* * *

Back inside the house, Brian found Allison talking to Beans as they dug into the Baked Ziti dished out onto their plates, oozing with mozzarella cheese and chock full of Italian sausage. Brian saw Pietro just as he sat down, Elenora's partner nodding at the Irishman, who gave him a small wave. The young blonde sitting next to Pietro, however, caught his eye, and Brian sat down across from her as he introduced himself.

"I'm sorry, I don't believe we've met. I'm Brian McDonnell, I work with Elenora and Pietro." greeted Brian.

"Nice to meet you, Brian! I'm Trinity Bagnanno. The older man talking with that girl there is my grandfather."

"Pleased to meet you, Trinity. And I must say, Mr. Bagnanno should be proud to have such a lovely granddaughter." complimented the Irishman with a smile.

As they started chatting amicably, at the other end of the table, Beans shot a wary glance at Brian as Allison talked with him about Rush.

"Say- is your partner hitting on my granddaughter?"

"He's just being friendly- though I will admit it makes me a bit jealous to see him talking to other women. You might say he's my 'heterosexual life partner', hehe!" joked Allison, trying to steer Beans' attention back to the subject at hand. "Anyway, we were talking about Rush?"

"Oh, right. Anyhow, while I told Rush that I don't like the way he drives, he and that car of his saved my ass. It's bulletproof, fast, and the damn kid seems to have taken a page from James Bond."

_That_ caught Allison's interest. "Really? What exactly does that mean?"

"Well, not only is his car nigh-indestructible even though it has an open top all the time, but when we were being chased along Luquer Street by some Deluzzi thugs, that tricky bastard deployed a goddamn **oil slick **to lose them."

"No way! An o_il slick_ dispenser? What else does he have?"

"I don't know, kid- that was all I saw him use. But I honestly wouldn't be surprised if he has missile launchers or machine guns in the damn thing."

"That settles it- I'm asking him what's under the hood when he gets here."

"How'd you learn about him, anyway?"

Allison thought carefully before answering. "My partner has a cousin in the NYPD's 42nd precinct. Apparently, the man has worked with Rush before. We stopped in his office, he called up Rush for us, and it went from there."

"Well, until you guys are safely at an airport, stick with him. He'll keep you all safe."

"Is your partner's cousin Tommy McDonnell, by any chance?" asked Alfonso, taking a forkful of Lasagna.

"Yeah... You know him?"

"Know him? I was his Little League Coach until the age of twelve, and then I was his baseball coach in high school. We go back a ways. Good kid. How's he doing nowadays?"

"He's doing well; getting ready to transfer over to the Organized Crime Unit."

"Shit, I better make myself scarce, then!" said Beans before chuckling- the old man was already out of the business of being a mobster, and just wanted to spend the rest of his days doting on his granddaughter and the rest of her family and playing cards with Alfonso.

Suddenly, everyone's attention was drawn by the sound of engines racing on the street in front of their house and the screech of tires. Allison's eyes saw two black Chevrolet Express vans come to a halt outside, the side doors sliding open and the unmistakable silhouette of Kalashnikov AKM assault rifles, having just enough time to warn everyone.

"DOWN!"

Everyone at the table dropped to the floor as automatic weapons fire came bursting into the living room, shattering the windows, ripping the curtains and blinds, and shattering anything unfortunate enough to be porcelain or glass and in the path of the incoming rounds. Their interrupted meals now littered the floor as the heavy oak dining table splintered but held when a few incoming rifle rounds impacted on the surface. As a pause in the firing happened, Beans' men got to a knee, drew their Glocks, and started returning fire. Allison and Brian also drew their Kimbers and took them off safety as Elenora and Pietro drew their own weapons and moved to spirit off Alfonso, Beans, and Trinity to a safer location in the house. However, Alfonso had other plans. Doing a textbook infantry low crawl on his belly under the line of fire, he made his way towards a section of wall in his house next to a closet and gave it a good thump with his fist, bringing down a hidden weapon cache mounted on a false wall panel that swung down. Weapons found on the tray included an M1 Garand, an M2 Carbine, an M14 Battle Rifle, an M3A1 'Grease Gun', a Winchester Model 12 Shotgun, a Colt M1911A1, and an M1918 BAR Light Machine Gun. To even things up, all the weapons came with plenty of spare ammunition- at least 150 rounds of spare ammunition were available for each weapon, with the exception of the Model 12, which just had a large pouch full of 12-gauge shells, and the Colt, which had five spare magazines. Beans saw the weapons and shouted to his friend over the gunfire.

"Hey Al! Where the hell did all that iron come from?"

"Good ol' Uncle Sam takes care of his Misguided Children!" replied Alfonso as he took down the Garand and loaded the first of several 8-round en-bloc clips, laying down the bandolier in front of him. As he made his weapon ready, Beans' bodyguards reloaded and stayed down, and then the din stopped as Brian motioned to Allison to reload and wait. They saw the shadows of more hostiles approaching the door, and Alfonso quickly fed 6 shotshells into the Model 12 before sliding it and the pouch of spare shells over to Allison and the M3 plus its spare magazines over to Brian. Beans' men quickly grabbed the remaining M14 and M1911A1.

"You guys know how to use those, right?" asked Alfonso.

"Yes, but why?" asked Brian, loading a 30-round magazine. Across from him, Allison placed her Kimber on the floor and aimed the Winchester at the front door, which was now under attack by feet and gunshots. It was holding, but only for a few seconds more.

"If you have heavier firepower, use it if you can. Those Kimbers you two have are nice, but you're gonna end up using all your ammo before you finish them all off. Besides, what I've given you is a proper gun."

"No offense, sir, but I used an MP5 when I was in the SAS for a reason."

The door began to start buckling, and Alfonso, Allison, Beans' men, and Brian all focused on the door again, Alfonso training his M1 Garand on the door.

"Now then... I'll show these mafia punks why you don't fuck with a Jarhead who landed at Inchon..."

The front door finally gave way, Verino thugs streaming inside the house, where they were promptly greeted by a hail of 9mm Parabellum, .45ACP, 00 buckshot, 7.62 NATO, and .30-06 ammunition. Alfonso quickly worked his way through the 8-round clip, which flew out with a distinct ping as he reloaded his Garand the moment the spent clip flew out the top, the bolt slamming itself home as he re-shouldered the weapon. Fire came pouring in from the front again as more thugs tried making their way inside through the broken windows as well as the door, but like before, Allison, Brian, the Bagnanno men, and Alfonso fatally bathed them with lead for their efforts. Allison, having slam-fired the Winchester to empty, opened the still-filled shotshell pouch to reload.

"Allison, check the back. Mr. Gabrielli and I have the front covered—you two, go check on your boss." Brian ordered to Allison and Beans' men.

"Cover us, then?" asked Allison.

"I got you covered on three, kid." said Alfonso, now readying the BAR. "One... Two... Three!"

Brian and Alfonso popped up from behind cover, rattling off prolonged bursts from their weapons as Beans' men went upstairs while Allison picked up her Kimber and went around to the backdoor, where she spotted more Verino thugs trying to enter the residence as she looked through the kitchen window. Training the Winchester on them, she racked the pump, garnering their attention, and then let loose a shell into their group at head level, killing one of them and sending a few more tumbling backwards as she continued firing into the small group. Rushing out the back door, Allison followed the small concrete walkway towards the alley leading to the street, finding a perfect bottleneck to set up and start plugging away as if she were shooting fish in a barrel. Each man who attempted to make his way up was met with a shotgun blast to the face, and six men met their end this way before Allison had to reload, giving some thugs time to return fire and advance. A single 9mm bullet winged Allison's right shoulder, which was of no consequence as she continued shooting. As the firefight dragged on, Allison started to wonder where Rush was when the roar of an engine preceded the sight of a Verino thug being tossed into the air as he was rammed by Sam, and as Allison knew, where Sam was, Rush was right there with her.

Inside the house, Brian watched as Sam plowed into a group of thugs; the ones trying to enter the house now focused their fire on Rush and Sam, giving Brian and Alfonso ample opportunity to destroy their distracted adversaries from behind, which they did with swift brutality.

The two stopped firing, listening for any more activity. It sounded like things were all clear. Brian called out, just to be sure.

"Pietro, Elenora! Where are you guys, and are you okay?"

"We're fine upstairs, Brian!" answered Elenora. "Mr. Bagnanno, his men, and Trinity are okay, as well!"

"I'll go find Allison." said Brian, placing the Grease Gun back on the weapon rack. Kimber drawn, he went out the backdoor and down the walkway to the alley, where he spotted Allison looking towards the street. Being careful not to sneak up on her, he got her attention.

"You all right?"

Allison turned her head first, though her body tensed and gripped the shotgun in her hands. Upon seeing it was Brian, she relaxed and gave her reply.

"Aside from a flesh wound in the shoulder, I'm okay- nothing some spray bandage can't patch up."

Brian nodded in acknowledgment. "Let's get to the Delta, then. Pretty sure we have a can in there."

"Everyone inside okay?" asked Allison, walking towards the street.

"You're pretty much the only one on our side with any holes in them, Allison." said Brian.

"Makes me unique!" joked Allison, causing Brian to shake his head. As they walked into the street, Rush got out of his Solstice, Wilson Combat pistol in hand.

"Sorry I'm late. You guys all right?"

"We're fine, and Allison just has a flesh wound we're about to deal with using some spray bandage."

"You found your friends?"

"Yes, they're still in the house right now. We'll get Allison patched up and then bugger off to LaGuardia."

"I'll keep the engine running. I have a feeling this isn't the end of the bullets flying, yet."

"All right. I'll head inside. Allison- tend to that wound."

With a nod, Allison went to the Delta, which miraculously had not been hit during the shootout scant minutes ago. Brian went inside to check on the occupants of Alfonso Gabrielli's home. Upon entering the living room, he happened to catch Alfonso hanging up the phone as he spoke to Beans and Elenora.

"I got off the phone with Tommy- he's sending his people over here to secure the scene."

"You must know my cousin." said Brian. "Then you're in good hands, Mr. Gabrielli. But Allison and I have to leave with Pietro and your niece. Things aren't safe here anymore. Not for them."

"Kid, make sure you stick with Rush." said Beans. "Until you get Al's niece and her partner aboard a one-way trip to Italy, they're in it deep, and those Verino guys are pretty damn hacked off at them. You do what Rush says, they'll make it out of the Big Apple in one piece."

"I understand, Mister Bagnanno. And that's precisely why we have to go, now."

A few moments later, Brian, Pietro, and Elenora were out the door, having said goodbye to their hosts. Outside, Allison was finishing her chat with Rush, who was handing her a folded-up slip of paper.

"What's this?" asked Allison.

"That would be the chemical recipe for the triple-layer polymer coating that I use with Sam." replied Rush. "Apply that to your Delta there, and you should have fairly decent protection without adding too much weight."

"But—I can't take this!"

"Yes, you can—and you should. Look, I don't really have an idea of what line of work you do, nor do I really want to know. But I can see that you've trained to get into sketchy situations. Think of this recipe as insurance. Besides, you'll need every card you can possibly play when everything goes sideways."

"I... I don't know how to thank you, Rush."

"You can thank me by using that recipe wisely—and not letting it fall into the wrong hands."

"I won't let you down, Rush!"

"Good to hear."

Brian, Pietro, and Elenora descended the stoop stairs and went into the street.

"We ready to go?" asked Brian.

"Sam's ready, I'm ready." replied Rush.

"I'll fire up the Delta." added Allison, going to the red hot hatch. She was about to turn the key when her ears picked up the thrum of helicopter rotor blades that was growing louder with each second. She focused on her task again and turned the ignition key, resulting in a momentary whir of the starter before the Lancia roared to life.

"Get in!"

Pietro and Elenora piled into the backseat of the Delta as Brian took his place up front after stopping at the rear of the Delta to grab his HK416 and a few spare magazines out of the 'diplomatic bag', seating a magazine and chambering a round. Before they could leave, Beans came out onto the stoop with his men, Trinity, and Alfonso.

"Rush!" Beans called to the Asian man.

"Mr. Bagnanno?"

"Take good care of our friends!"

"I will, sir."

With Rush in front of them, the two cars escaped the scene as police sirens wailed in the distance. Rush knew the most direct route was to take the highway. Normally, it would take thirty minutes, but with the way they were driving, Rush was hoping they would make it in fifteen—and without running into trouble.

As the two-car convoy pulled onto the eastbound side of the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, Rush felt the familiar tingle at the back of his head, and he checked his rearview mirror. Scanning the cars behind him and the McDonnells' Delta, he caught sight of a gray Mercedes-Benz E320 keeping a certain distance behind them. Two lanes over was a blue BMW 528i. Both were completely occupied by four grown male adults—and as he saw when one of them moved, they were armed with assault rifles. Rush quickly dialed up the phone he had given Brian.

"What's up, Rush?" asked Brian upon picking up.

"We've got company. The blue Beemer and the gray Merc behind you. They're holding their distance, but they're armed."

"Damn. Should I get ready for a firefight?" These words were not lost on Allison, Elenora, and Pietro, their attention grabbed by Brian's response.

"No. You get ready to floor it all the way to LaGuardia if there's any shooting. Sam and I will run interference. Use your weapons only as a last resort. I think having the police involved in your particular case will only complicate things further." replied Rush."

"What about you, Rush?"

"What about me?"

"How do you intend to fight these tossers?"

"Like I said before—Sam has a few tricks under the hood. Deadly tricks. Now get ready to go—they're making their move."

As Rush ended the call, the BMW and Mercedes-Benz began accelerating towards them. Allison reached for her Kimber, but Brian stopped her.

"I'm sure you heard Rush on the phone. We run, not fight in this scenario. Concentrate on losing these bastards through traffic—but watch out for the old bill."

"Yes, Brian."

As the BMW and the Benz caught up, the windows rolled down and muzzles were pointed out the window, instinctively causing Elenora and Pietro to duck down in the rear seat. Allison waited a beat before shifting up and slamming the gas pedal to the firewall, causing the Delta to leap forward as Rush simultaneously moved out of the way and dropped back between the two cars full of gunmen. He pulled the wheel left to get behind the Mercedes-Benz first and opened fire with the dual automatic shotguns, which quickly tore the sedan and its occupants to shreds, the car slewing to the left into the Jersey barrier and coming to a grinding halt. The men in the BMW accelerated, their attention partly on Rush, partly on the Delta that was getting away. Rifle fire began pinging off of Sam's bodywork once again as he accelerated and aimed for the left-rear corner of the BMW, forcing the sedan into a slide—the classic PIT maneuver, as it were. As the blue BMW spun, Rush opened up with the dual 12-gauges again, broadsiding the left side of the car at close range, creating shrapnel out of the bodywork which cut into the men inside. The BMW began to roll over violently, and Rush guided Sam out from behind the crashing BMW and accelerated past to go and re-join the McDonnells who had sprinted down the road when the shooting began.

Further up the Expressway, Allison had settled into a high-speed cruise of around eighty miles per hour, fairly certain they were out of danger, at least for the time being.

"Well, Rush told us to run... hope he's all right." said Allison.

"I'm confident he is. But nonetheless, getting to LaGuardia is our priority."

Allison was about to say something when she heard the thrum of helicopter blades once again—and as she looked in her rearview mirror, her eyes widened to spot a red Eurocopter AS350 bearing down on them with a door gunner wielding an M240 Light Machine Gun.

"Y-G-B-S-M! Mr. Pietro, Ms. Elenora, get down and hang on!"

Allison increased throttle once again as the precious cargo in the back ducked their heads down below the line of fire as the door gunner in the AS350 began shooting, bullets chewing small bits out of the asphalt. Allison began taking a serpentine pattern trying to avoid the incoming rounds, which worked until a few of them began scoring hits on the Delta's bodywork. She accelerated again in a straight line to try and escape the helicopter, but its higher speed allowed the shooter to keep up with them.

"Dammit, how do I shake this guy?" yelled Allison over the din.

"Keep driving, Allie! Just focus on getting to LaGuardia!" replied Brian, holding back the urge to open fire on the helicopter—he still had to save his ammunition as a last resort.

500 feet back, Rush was closing the distance between himself and the McDonnells when he saw the helicopter clearly chasing them. With his forward-firing shotguns unable to be independently aimed upwards, he would have to find a means of either getting Sam to launch upwards at an angle that he could attack from, or somehow goad the helicopter into focusing on him and getting it to stop or hover. Shifting into sixth gear, he floored the gas pedal to catch up with the Delta ahead, and as he caught up to the fast-moving AS350, he drew his Wilson Combat and started taking potshots at the helicopter just to get the attention of those onboard. Sure enough, the attacking mafia helicopter rotated so that the door gunner could bring his M240 to bear on himself and Sam. Rush swerved out of the door gunner's firing vectors and searched around for a way to finally end the madness. Seeing none, he did the last thing anyone would do—he brought Sam to a complete halt. The helicopter also slowed and began to hover as Rush ducked down the moment the door gunner resumed firing, Sam's bodywork taking a serious beating from the incoming rounds. Rush took hold of a small joystick near the handbrake and launched a miniature version of Sam—affectionately called 'Little Sammi'-from the bottom of the car, and a solid-fuel rocket motor propelled the little car forward. As soon as he saw it pass under the fuselage of the helicopter, he thumbed the button on top of the joystick, detonating the R/C car's built-in plastic explosives. The force of the explosion rocked the helicopter, sending it tumbling backwards, the tail rotor scraping the outside concrete barrier of the expressway, damaging it and causing the aircraft to spin violently before collapsing onto the pavement and exploding in a ball of fire. Rush emerged from under the dashboard, dusted himself off, and placed Sam into gear, driving off after the McDonnells.

Allison had seen it all in her rearview mirror and was awestruck. "I don't know what Rush did," said Allison, "But that was a hell of a boom."

"I certainly hope that's the end of that particular excitement." said Brian. "We need to get these two out of the country sharpish."

Rush blew by and went into their lane, and Allison accordingly kept pace with the man's black Solstice all the way to LaGuardia. Somehow, they managed not to attract the attention of New York's finest or the highway patrol despite racing down the highway with the speedometer needle hovering close to ninety miles an hour.

* * *

Upon pulling into the Warhawk Military Aviation hangar some twenty minutes later, Allison let her Delta's turbo spin down as Elenora and Pietro got out of the backseat, incredulous that the ride was over and they were in one piece. Rush pulled up next to them as Brian got out and went to the back of the Delta and retrieved the briefcase with the $10,000 in cash. He handed it over to Rush and shook the man's hand.

"Thanks for getting us here in one piece. This would have been a much more difficult mission without you."

"You're welcome." replied Rush. "And please pass on my thanks to Tommy."

"Will do."

Meanwhile, Allison was trying to find Yuri and Margarita, and she eventually found them napping on the bench seats of the IL-76 they flew in on.

"Uh, guys?" asked Allison softly.

Margarita stirred to answer while Yuri still snored away. Rubbing her eyes, she saw Allison and became more alert.

"What's up, Allison? Did you finish your mission?"

"More or less. You guys get enough rest? We need to get Mr. Fermi and Ms. Gabrielli out of the country ASAP."

"We're not ready to leave yet, Allison. However, we have another crew from Australia getting ready to make a flight to Italy. If you and Brian aren't going back yet, but the other two have to get going, I recommend sticking them on that flight."

"Who are the pilots?"

"Ask around for 'Wes and Nat'. They're flying out a G650 after transporting some VIPs from earlier in the week."

Two new voices joined the conversation. "You talking 'bout us, Marge?" asked an Australian accent from behind Allison. She turned around to see a black-haired male pilot with rectangular glasses and a brown-haired female co-pilot whose hair was tied in a ponytail; both wearing the standard Olive Drab flightsuit typical of Warhawk Military Aviation's pilots.

"That I am, Wes." replied Margarita, addressing the male of the pair. "Brian and Allison don't seem to be planning on going home right this minute, but the people they were sent in to find are. You mind taking the other two with you back to Pratica di Mare?"

"Did the boss say if that was all right?" asked Nat.

"Well, the boss is currently on a mission with 'the kids', so she's not exactly available for comment. However, she _did _leave Yuri and I the contact info for the SWA guys in charge of this op, so let me give them a call..."

About a minute later, Margarita was finishing off a quick chat with Priscilla as Wes and Nat started winding down their pre-flight checks.

"All right, you two." said Margarita from the ramp of the IL-76. "They'll be expecting the Section 1 folks onboard. How long til wheels up?"

"Not long, about ten minutes, maybe." answered Wes.

"Tell 'em they're welcome aboard, though." added Nat.

Before Elenora and Pietro boarded the G650, they bid a farewell to Brian and Allison.

"Thanks for coming to get us out." said Elenora.

"See you back in Italy." added Pietro.

"Likewise." replied Brian. "You guys have a safe flight."

A few minutes later, Allison and Brian watched as Nat and Wes climbed aboard, powering up the G650, its Rolls-Royce turbofans shrieking with life as they began taxiing out of the hangar towards the runway. They stayed a little longer, watching the G650 take off into the blue afternoon sky before turning away to decide their next move.

"So what now? It seems like we brought all that firepower for nothing." said Allison, remembering that the diplomatic bag was still laden down with ammunition and explosives.

"Well, we need to finish patching things up with Cousin Tommy- we haven't finished our little talk. But after that, I say we take a little time to enjoy New York. I might catch hell for it when I get back, but you did well today, and you should be rewarded accordingly."

Allison's eyes lit up at her older brother's praise. "You really mean that, Brian?"

"Of course. In fact, I was thinking that maybe after finishing our talk with Cousin Tommy, we can go see that musical you were interested in-'Thoroughly Modern Millie', I believe it was?"

Allison quickly wrapped Brian in a powerful hug. "Brian, you're the coolest older brother _ever_!"

"Right." said Brian, trying to hug Allison back, lightly tapping her shoulder as a signal to ease her grip. "Now what do you say to finding us another car? The Delta's probably a little hot, and I don't think we'll involve ourselves in any shooting from here on out. Any ideas as to what you'd like to drive?"

Allison saw a Mini Cooper Convertible past the airport fence as it drove towards the terminal and settled upon that.

"I've always wanted to give a Mini Cooper a try..."

"I'll make sure to get the S version if the John Cooper Works version isn't available."

"You know me too well, Brian."

"I wouldn't be much of an older brother if I didn't."


	8. Rumble in the Jungle

**Tire Tracks and Spent Casings**

**A Gunslinger Girl Fanfic by MP5**

Disclaimer: Gunslinger Girl is the property of Yu Aida. All trademarks featured herein are copyright their respective owners. Allison and Brian as well as other original characters herein are property of MP5 unless otherwise noted.

Jethro and Monty Blacker are the property of Alfisti

Clayland Stanaway and Laine are the property of Rusty-Spring on Cyborg Central Forums

Mario and Maria Greco and Michael and Jamie Christiansen are the property of Maverick375

George and Adeline Melita are the property of Symbiotic

'Aviv Panthera', 'Fleisher AR-5 Blizzard' and 'Adler FF M-72' are the property of Eidos Interactive and Avalanche Studios

"_**Bold and italicized dialogue indicates a foreign language other than English or Italian." **_(unless otherwise indicated)

**Chapter 8: Rumble in the Jungle**

* * *

**Ninoy Aquino International Airport; Metro Manila, Philippines- 48 hours ago**

"Whew! I never thought this country would be so hot!" Exclaimed Isabella Pisano Moretti as she stepped out of Terminal 3 into the beating sunlight of midday Metro Manila. Beside her was her husband Ronaldo Moretti, whose face was also quickly developing a sheen of sweat from the surrounding heat.

"Must be nice not having winter, though." Said Ronaldo, taking hold of Isabella's hand. "Come on, let's get to our hotel."

With his free hand, Ronaldo towed both their wheeled suitcases behind them, being careful to go at a pace that would not overexert his wife—with a small glance, he reminded himself of the fact that Isabella was heavy with their unborn child, due sometime soon. Why his wife wanted to take a vacation now was beyond his comprehension, but it would be impossible to do so once their child was born.

Making their way to a Toyota HiAce taxi van in the pick-up/drop-off zone, the driver noted their approach and hopped out to assist them.

"_Kamusta.__"_ greeted Ronaldo as the driver opened the tailgate.

"_Ah, Kamusta, ser! Saan kayo pupunta ngayon__?"_ replied the driver in Tagalog.

"Uh... I'm sorry, I don't speak Tagalog very well." replied Ronaldo in English.

"Oh, sorry ser, that is all right; I speak English too. Eh, where I can take you both today, ser?"

"New World Hotel in Makati, Please." said Isabella.

"Okay, right away!"

The couple piled into the vehicle and buckled up as the driver started up the engine and pulled into the hectic Metro Manila traffic leading out of the airport. Because of the typical level of stop-and-go traffic, it took almost half an hour to travel the three or so miles to the hotel. Pulling up to the curb, the driver hopped down ahead and removed the Morettis' luggage as Ronaldo helped Isabella down from the van. As they moved to the hotel entrance, Ronaldo fished out a €100-Euro note from his pocket and handed it to the driver.

"Oh! Tenk you, ser!" exclaimed the man excitedly. €100 Euro amounted to 6000 or so Pesos, and most cab drivers received about 600 Pesos on a typical run, even if they pulled a fast one on their customers. The driver knew he would get a lot of Pesos in return once he had this bill exchanged.

"There's more where that came from, friend. You drove well for my wife and I. What's your name?" said Ronaldo.

"Joseph Aguinaldo, ser."

"Well, Joseph, can I get your phone number so that I can personally call you up this evening? My wife and I would like to go somewhere nice in town for dinner, and I think you most likely know the best places."

"Oh, that is no problem at all ser. My business number is..."

A few moments passed, and Ronaldo had changed contact information with Joseph, who waved goodbye as the couple made their way into the hotel. Retreating to his taxi, Joseph sat in the driver's seat and pulled out his cell phone, dialing a number. Someone on the other end of the line picked up and Joseph spoke a quick message:

"_**I have a new target. A rich Italian couple is going to be taking my taxi tonight, and they should be worth a lot of money."**_

* * *

**Social Welfare Agency Special Operation Section II, Rome—Present Day**

Outside Chief Lorenzo's office, a young man dressed in a gray suit with spiked black hair looked at his Rolex Daytona timepiece nestled behind his left-hand leather glove in annoyance, tapping his foot as he sat next to an older, bespectacled, and elegant raven-haired woman who absentmindedly opened and closed a stainless steel cigarette case that had been nestled in the breast pocket of her blazer.

"He's late again." noted the boy with irritation.

"Give him some time, Andy. I'm sure your brother will be here soon enough." replied the woman, a French accent lacing her voice.

"Nicolette, if I know Charlie, I'm bloody sure he's putting what you taught him to use for his own personal gain." replied Andy, exasperation evident in his voice. "You can't tell me he wouldn't. You know how he is."

"Well, even if you're right, I'm sure he won't be too long." Nicolette said hopefully. "We have a job to do, after all."

* * *

Inside the Chief's office, Priscilla was beginning to wrap up the daily intelligence briefing, ending with the recent information passed over from Section One regarding Gabrielli and Fermi's botched mission in New York- which turned up substantial information nonetheless.

"...and finally, there's this information discovered by Agents Fermi and Gabrielli during their mission in New York. Before they were compromised, they had managed to garner photographic evidence of the merchandise being traded. What turned up is surprising-"

Priscilla pressed a button on the remote in her hand to bring up another slide featuring one of the pictures taken before Fermi and Gabrielli destroyed their phones to avoid being tracked. The shot taken had since been enhanced and had a red circle added around a particular weapon in addition to its profile and specs displayed at the bottom of the screen.

"The first weapon the Camorra were purchasing in quantity through the Verino Mob is the Aviv Panthera submachine gun- it's a competitor to the Heckler & Koch MP5 and UMP, with a somewhat similar design, and chambered for .45ACP or .40S&W, comes with a 40-round straight magazine, collapsible stock, and a monolithic upper rail."

Priscilla thumbed the button again, the position of the red ring highlighting another weapon.

"Next up is the Fleisher AR-5 Blizzard Automatic Rifle. 60-round quadruple-stack magazine, chambered for 7.62 NATO, 900rpm firing rate. Designed primarily as a support weapon, but is found to have accuracy parallel to an M16 or M4A1, despite using an open-bolt mechanism."

Priscilla advanced to the next slide. Once again, the position of the red ring changed, highlighting something that looked an awful lot like the Heckler & Koch G36.

"Finally, the Adler FF M-72 Assault Rifle. License-built modified design of the Mexican FX-05 Xiuhcoatl assault rifle, uses 30-round STANAG or M16 magazines, available in both 7.62mm NATO and 5.56mm NATO. Now then- there is one thing these weapons all have in common- none of them are supposed to be on the market yet. They were only debuted at the annual US SHOT show just a few months ago, and they aren't supposed to be available for sale until fourth quarter of this year."

"This means that more than one person associated with the Verino mob is fencing advance units to them." noted Jean. "The question is why?"

"Well, whatever the answer is, the idea of terrorists and criminals field-testing high-powered weaponry in public is not a pleasant one." affirmed Lorenzo. "Let's get a _fratello_ on this, now. Who's available? The Blackers?"

"Currently on assignment in Monaco." responded Ferro.

"Right. Stanaway and Brussard?"

"Egypt."

"The Paganis?"

"On leave, as are the Alboretos."

"The Grecos?"

"Still on assignment."

"The Montagnes?"

"We're briefing them for a Milan mission after this meeting."

"And the Christiansen fratello would raise red flags the moment they set foot in the U.S." sighed Lorenzo. "I got it. Are the Melita Fratello available?"

"Yes, they are." replied Ferro.

"Jean, go and notify them, then notify Thomas McDonnell."

"Right away, sir."

Lorenzo turned to Priscilla to dismiss her. "Thank you, Priscilla. That will be all."

"Yes, Chief."

As the analyst turned to leave, Lorenzo had one more request. "On your way out, could you send in the Montagnes for their briefing?"

"No problem, sir."

When Priscilla exited the office, she spotted Andy and Nicolette waiting idly on the bench outside the office. Clearing her throat, the analyst was able to get their attention.

"Nicolette, Andy, Chief Lorenzo will see you now."

The two stood up, Andy walking ahead as Nicolette lingered a moment longer, giving Priscilla a kind smile.

"_Merci beaucoup_, Priscilla. See you later."

"Likewise."

Nicolette turned to enter the office, but to Priscilla, the Frenchwoman did not so much walk as waft elegantly past her into the Chief's office.

"Wow..."

Meanwhile, in front of the chief, Andy and Nicolette stood at attention, though in a relaxed manner compared to the normal military connotation. However, Lorenzo noted with some irritation that one of them was missing.

"Where's Charlie?"

"Hm. I told him to be here on time, and I was almost sure he'd show up before we were called in... Let me try his cellphone." replied Nicolette, removing her iPhone from her pocket. Scrolling through her contacts, she tapped the screen, highlighting Charlie's number, pressing 'call' and held the phone to her ear as she heard the dialing tone. Almost immediately, however, she got the recording for his voicemail as a jovial London accent answered.

"_You've reached the voicemail of Charles Montagne. I can't answer my mobile right now, but if you leave a message-"_

Nicolette briskly ended the call in annoyance before sighing and turning to Ferro.

"His phone's off... Ferro, could you please page him?"

"One moment."

* * *

Around the compound, everyone else's attention was drawn by the sound of the Public Address system as Ferro's voice delivered a message after a few warning beeps:

"_Charles Montagne to Chief Lorenzo's office; Charles Montagne, report to Chief Lorenzo's office for your mission briefing."_

In the office of Medical Department neurologist Marianna Giordano, the page was an unwelcome interruption that only caused frustration and a lack of satisfaction as the freckled doctor reluctantly separated herself from the handsome black-haired young man who was forced to cease his ministrations upon her. Such a shame, too- he made sex into an _art_.

"Sorry, Marianna." said the young man, buttoning his trousers and shirt. "Duty calls, luv."

"You owe me, Charlie." replied the neurologist, pulling her black lace panties back up under her skirt. "Don't keep me waiting too long, now."

"Wouldn't dream of it, dear. And I always pay my debts in full." quipped Charlie, leaning over to Marianna and pulling her close to him. In one smooth motion, he enveloped her in an embrace and kissed her lips, which served as a partial distraction as his hand crept down, palm open, and gave the woman an attention-grabbing but playful swat on the bottom.

"Ooh!" cooed Marianna before giggling a little bit. "Charlie, behave!"

"For luck. And you can get me back when I return. Now I really have to get going."

"Later, _Tiger_."

Charlie chuckled lightly as he stepped out of the office, retrieving his black tie from the doorknob before setting off at a light jog to the Chief's office. As it happened, Giorgio and Amadeo spotted him coming out of Marianna's office, and they immediately knew what had transpired.

"Bastard." said Giorgio.

"_Lucky_ Bastard." Amadeo corrected.

As Charlie arrived at the chief's office, he slowed to replace his tie and adjust his appearance before entering the office, finding four pairs of eyes staring at him in a mixture of indifference, irritation, and curiosity.

"Nice of you to join us, Charlie." said Lorenzo, finally breaking the silence. "Got a job for you—one of your specialties."

"You caught me at the right time, Chief—I was just getting some practice."

Lorenzo's face visibly soured, as did Ferro's, before the Section Two chief cleared his throat and continued.

"Very funny, Charlie, but no. Your _fratello_ will be orchestrating a bank job in Milan to acquire a not-insignificant amount of Camorra funds, drugs, and precious stones. How you accomplish the job is up to you, but we took the precaution of setting you up with a team."

"That big a job, huh?"

"That it is. You've also got a safehouse set up already in Milan, which is also where your team resides."

"If we ever pick a team, it's generally at our discretion." said Nicolette. "We cannot automatically assume that we can trust whoever you pick at random, sir."

"We knew you might have your reservations, so we pulled their files." replied Ferro, producing a 'TOP SECRET'-marked manila folder and handing it over to Nicolette. "We think you may find them useful and interesting to work with- especially you, Charlie."

"They're all birds." noted Andy upon seeing the gender of all the personnel listed in the file.

"You're right, Ferro. I _am_ interested." added Charlie. The file photos of of the listed personnel showed a group of six girls in their late teens, and by Charlie's standards, they were all fairly attractive. Nicolette, meanwhile, noted the name of the group.

" 'Section Zero'?" Nicolette asked. "Who are they?"

"Predecessors of the SWA." replied Lorenzo. "They're from an era before the cyborg program, so these girls have been around a long, long time. As far as I know, they have no support or funding like we do; I hear most of them actually have full-time or part-time jobs because they don't do many missions except for ones that could potentially wipe all of them out. We're sending your fratello up there so that you have a base of operations and access to armaments. In exchange, I imagine they'll need financial support to maintain their home and keep food on the table. And I also imagine they could use some friendship up there."

"Friendship?" asked Charlie.

"Section Zero is obscure for a reason." replied Ferro. "A long time ago, their funding was cut more or less around the time the cyborg program was starting up. I've only heard stories, but reportedly, the only contact they have with the government is to see if any of them have died after the last mission."

Andy seemed a bit perturbed by that fact but said nothing. Charlie, on the other hand, turned up his enthusiasm.

"Well, I suppose this is our chance to extend the olive branch, so to speak?"

"If you wish, Charlie." said Lorenzo. "You've been given your marching orders; find a way to carry them out and come back with the money. You're all dismissed."

Without further ado, the Montagne trio left the office to go prepare for their trip up to Milan. Less than a minute passed after their departure when Priscilla burst into the office, her face flushed from the effort of sprinting there.

"Chief! We have a situation! It's urgent!"

"Slow down, Priscilla. What's happening?"

"The PM's niece has been kidnapped by terrorists in the Philippines- turn on CNN, RAI, BBC; it's all everyone's talking about right now!"

Lorenzo reached for the TV remote and turned on the flat screen TV mounted on the wall nearby, tuning into CNN International, where anchor Rosemary Church was reading off the story of the hour:

"_For those of you just joining us, we bring you breaking news out of the Philippines; the niece of Italian Prime Minister Renato Pisano and her husband were kidnapped by terrorists while on vacation in Manila three nights ago. Full details are still forthcoming, but what is known is that they have been missing for the past 72 hours, their location unknown until a video made by their captors was aired on Al-Jazeera earlier today demanding the withdrawal of Italian troops supporting NATO operations in Afghanistan and $10 million dollars in exchange for the safe release of Isabella Pisano Moretti and her husband, Ronaldo Moretti, and their unborn child. The Abu Sayaaf terror group, who have claimed responsibility for the kidnapping, have threatened 'swift and immediate harm' to the couple if any attempt at rescue is mounted..."_

"Damn it." growled Lorenzo, turning away from the television. "Greedy bastards, they're not gonna get away with this bullshit. Not if I have anything to say about it."

"Do you need to get in contact with Minister Petris, sir?" asked Ferro.

"I'm certainly planning on it." replied Lorenzo. The three in the room were then taken by surprise when the phone rang. Ferro picked it up, and was surprised to hear who was on the other end of the line.

"One moment, please." Ferro replied before temporarily placing the caller on hold and turning to Lorenzo. "It's Defense Minister Petris, sir."

"Speak of the devil... All right, I'll take the call. Put her on speaker."

Ferro did as told, and after the 'speaker' light glowed steadily on the phone, Lorenzo spoke.

"Minister Petris, this is Chief Lorenzo speaking. How may I help you?"

"Lorenzo, have you turned on the news in the past hour?" asked Defense Minister Monica Petris.

"Yes I have, Minister."

"Then I'll cut to the chase. The Prime Minister has asked me to enlist the help of the Social Welfare Agency in this matter. Assemble a team of your best available _fratello_ and deploy them to rescue the Morettis from the terrorists."

"Understood, Minister Petris." replied Lorenzo. We're hatching a plan now."

"Very good, Lorenzo. Time is of the essence—the terrorists have given a deadline of 96 hours to comply with their demands—take advantage of it."

With that, the call ended, and Lorenzo conferred with Priscilla and Ferro.

"All right, how should we proceed with the rescue operation? How big a force do we send in? "

"I recommend sending several _fratello_, just to cover all the roles- we cannot afford to take chances with this one." said Ferro. "We'll need some close-quarters specialists, at least one sniper, and we need to send in the Golan _sorella_, as both of them are able to provide immediate medical assistance should the need arise."

"We'll pick them from whoever's on-compound right now." said Lorenzo. "How do we deploy them?"

"Standard procedure, I would think- via Warhawk Military Aviation?" suggested Priscilla.

"Unfortunately, not an option at the moment." rebutted Ferro. "Jennifer gave us a list of air bases and airports where Warhawk Military Aviation has access. Currently, none of them are in the Philippines."

"Looks like our team flies in commercial." said Lorenzo. "Slight disadvantage, but we can probably work around it."

"Not if you were planning on using the 'diplomatic bags'. First, we don't have enough at the moment for every single fratello, not to mention a large group like that will set off red flags even with government credentials. And we can also forget about instrument cases at this rate."

"Then we have our team procure their weapons on-site?" said Lorenzo. "I have to say, I'm not liking the sound of that."

"Maybe you'll like the sound of this." said a new voice. All three in the room turned to see Nathan Gilbert at the door, holding a manila folder as he walked into the office.

"Now as it happens with this situation, the CIA has been keeping track of the Morettis ever since they went missing from their hotel two nights ago." explained the American. "And as of this morning, the head of the Special Activities Division sent me this wonderful packet containing just about everything we need to know about the opposition, including their location, where the Morettis are being held, as well as other potential secondary hideouts that these terrorists might take them to."

Nathan opened the folder and unfurled a satellite map of the area with superimposed markings. "Looks like they've settled approximately 5 kilometers outside of Colonia on the island of Basilan in the southern Philippines. That's known Abu Sayaaf territory, for sure."

"What about the secondary hideouts?"

"A few more kilometers south; one in Materling, the other about half a klick outside Tipo-Tipo. Both are under surveillance by scout/sniper teams."

"Information on their numbers?"

"Thirty hostiles in the camp all in all, minimum of five guarding the Morettis, who have already been released from their restraints."

"Thank you for the intel, Nathan. Now... weapons."

"I know the guy stationed in the Basilan region. We can stop by his place and tool up for the operation. A lot of American weaponry, of course, but we've got suppressors for every firearm that's not a revolver, shotgun, rocket launcher, or grenade launcher."

"'We', you say." Lorenzo interrupted. "Are you _volunteering_ for this mission, Nathan?"

"That is correct, sir." replied the American.

"Why?"

"Erina is a CQB expert and a qualified marksman as well. Hostage rescue is one of the first combat specialties she mastered. Plus, she needs more missions under her belt."

"I get the impression that this is a _field test_ of her cybernetic implants for the CIA."

"In the interest of full disclosure, that is partially true. As Erina performs missions, I have to send back any findings to Langley, and I'm required to regularly report in person regarding her progress."

Lorenzo mulled things over in his head. On one hand, he did not appreciate the Central Intelligence Agency, of all parties, to be riding the coattails of the SWA's operation- it was potential leverage for the future and posed a significant OPSEC risk. On the other hand, the CIA had been gracious enough to save them time and legwork in finding the Morettis, and it was the Special Activities Division (at least, as far as he knew) involved in this mission, and their modus operandi was to deny _everything, _not to mention, Nathan wasn't the only CIA officer involved with the SWA. With a sigh, he made his decision.

"Nathan, do not make me regret this."

"You won't, sir."

"Go and start preparing for the mission. We'll finish up assembling the rest of the team."

* * *

A few hours later, as the sun reached its high noon position over Rome, British Airways Flight 1371, a Boeing 747-400, lifted off from Fiumicino Airport on its way to London's Heathrow Airport with several _fratello_ aboard comprising the hostage rescue team, which consisted of Jean and Rico, Hilshire and Triela, Nathan and Erina, Sarah and Annette, Marcus and Johanneke, and Brian and Allison. From Heathrow, they would catch a connecting flight to Hong Kong, and then a Cathay Pacific connecting flight to Manila. The entire process would take 21 hours, 15 minutes, including layovers and assuming no delays—and then, they would have to find a way to get to Basilan, leaving them with not much more time to plan the assault assuming nothing had changed during their transit to the Philippines and the specific area of operations. In the meantime, however, there was little else to do except enjoy the flight and all it had to offer, or get sleep. Right off the bat, former Excalibur Tactical Group members (and former Special Air Service troops) Brian and Marcus opted for the latter, pulling shades over their eyes to block out the ambient light. Next to her brother, Allison paged through a copy of _Super Street_ magazine, which featured a customized and heavily-tuned 2005 Nissan 350Z on the cover while she listened to Deep Purple's "Highway Star" on her Sansa Fuze. Across the aisle on the port window side of the cabin, Johanneke was also reading, having chosen a martial arts manual to pass the time. Behind the Spriggs fratello, the Golan sorella was also starting to settle into naps of their own, while behind the Golans, Jean and Rico sat quietly, the former staring ahead intensely, as if willing the plane to go faster, while the latter looked out the window, enjoying the scenery while there was still scenery available.

Behind the McDonnells, Hilshire and Triela were seated next to each other, the former occupying his time by grading essays written in response to his class unit on _Madame Bovary_ and _The Stranger_ while Triela cracked open the new book for the class. This one was a more contemporary American selection- _The Things They Carried_ by Tim O' Brien. As she began to read the title story, she found herself interrupted by the crinkling of plastic and the sound of crispy snacks being eaten. Turning around in her seat and leaning into the aisle, she found Erina sitting behind her, tearing into a bag of salt-and-vinegar potato crisps. Looking down, Triela saw that the bag was just one of many that Erina stuffed into a knapsack full of snacks and junk food—crisps, candy bars, packs of something called 'beef jerky', M&M's, trail mix, peanuts, and cheese-flavored crackers with peanut butter. The sheer amount of snacks in the bag boggled Triela's mind- what was more bewildering is that Erina was planning to consume all of it.

"Uh, Erina?" asked Triela.

"What's up, Triela?" replied Erina perkily.

"What's with all the snacks?"

"Oh, these? I'm fueling up. Storing away energy for the mission, y'know?"

"How can you eat all that?" asked Triela. "There's got to be at least 20 things in there to eat!"

"I'm taking it slow for now, but when I've got everything going, my metabolism is crazy-fast even for a cyborg. I'm storing up calories to be used for the mission—I got a trick up my sleeve, but it burns a ton of calories, which is why I'm stocking up now."

"What exactly makes it necessary to consume this much food?" Triela asked, her curiosity piqued.

"Bullet time."

"Bullet time?"

"Well really, dilated perception." Erina clarified. "In a combat situation, my specific cybernetics produce a _lot_ of adrenaline, and when it's time go rock n' roll, that adrenaline speeds up everything I perceive and cybernetics take care of the rest in terms of actually forming a physical reaction. In simpler terms, I can get a visual, confirm a threat, and dispatch the threat in the time it would take someone to perform a split-second weapon draw."

"And to get that effect, you really need that much food?"

"Sort of. Part of the calories go to dealing with the processing of information. The rest is to speeding up those muscle inputs that I need to clear a room in the range of less than one second. If I'm not packing away the calories to replenish those lost during one of these 'bullet time' moments, I'm totally screwed."

"But that doesn't explain you eating stuff all the time at the compound. I almost _never_ see you without a snack nearby." noted Triela.

"That's so that I don't clean out the cafeteria's supplies." replied Erina sheepishly. "I'm a big eater for my size, and all the stuff they built into me consumes a lot of energy—hence the eating."

"And will what you have hold you over until we're on-site?" asked Triela.

"Well, between whatever I have, the in-flight meals, and slowing everything down by sleeping, I should be okay once we're in the Philippines."

"Pfff. She's gonna buy more stuff during layover." scoffed Nathan as he typed on his netbook. "Where Kara would spend on clothes or Ferraris given Michele's 'Black' card, Erina here will clear out every single card-ready vending machine within a 1-mile radius."

"What? No, I wouldn't. Quit being mean, Nate!" said Erina indignantly.

"Just speaking the truth." replied the American with a teasing smirk.

For the next 10-15 minutes, Erina simply rolled up the bag of crisps she was eating, folded her arms and pouted as she stared ahead. The flight to Heathrow continued without further incident, and they arrived in England two hours later for the first layover before their connecting flight to Hong Kong.

* * *

During the 3-hour layover at Heathrow, the various fratello had to find ways to kill time within the confines of the airport terminal. Annette and Sarah went off to go get a bite to eat somewhere, Brian, Marcus, and Jean went to get a pint at the airport bar, while Nathan volunteered to keep an eye on Rico while he used his netbook. This left the rest of the girls to explore their surroundings in search of something to do to pass the time.

Triela, Allison, Johanneke, and Erina moved as a group through the terminal, perusing its shops and establishments just to see what was what. As Nathan had predicted, Erina went to buy even more snacks, which went directly into her already-bulging knapsack. Allison browsed through a newsstand to check out the car magazines, while Johanneke looked at firearms and shooting publications. And when she thought no one was looking, Triela lingered at a toyshop, staring at the teddy bears on the shelves.

Now, as the group walked around, Triela seemed lost in thought, just content to aimlessly wander. Her attention was suddenly captured by noise from somewhere to her left.

"ACTION!"

The staccato sound of rattling plastic almost made Triela reach for a weapon that she didn't have (a general stipulation of 'on-site procurement'), but as she turned to look at the source of the noise, she only saw two teenagers wielding brightly-colored plastic toy handguns wired to an arcade machine. The slides on the handguns popped back and forth with each pull of the trigger as enemies on-screen grunted in pain as the players' shots connected with them. Triela had no idea what she was seeing until an outburst from Allison elaborated upon the sight in front of her.

"Hey! This arcade has Time Crisis 3!" exclaimed Allison. "I love that game!"

"And looks like they've got Crackin' DJ Part 2—you almost never see this outside of Japan!" added Erina.

"They have Tekken 5!" Johanneke chimed in. "Let's get some change and get this thing rolling!"

While the three Generation 2 girls met the noise and flashing lights of the arcade with great enthusiasm, Triela felt out of place, not having been to this kind of establishment before. However, Allison grabbed her arm and pulled her in as the others stepped into the noisy arcade.

* * *

Meanwhile, Rico sat quietly next to Nathan as he typed away on the keyboard of his netbook. However, she was starting to grow a little bored just sitting around, and with none of the other cyborgs to talk to, she felt her skin start to itch a little. And so the sniper of the group turned to her current adult guardian.

"Mr. Nathan?" asked Rico, taking the opportunity to practice her English.

"Yes, Rico?"

"Do you mind if I go take a look around?" asked Rico.

"Not at all, Rico." replied Nathan. "You don't have to stay next to me the whole time; you can go ahead and walk around- just don't go too far away, and if you can, try to stay where I can see you. Other than that, go do what you want and don't get into trouble, okay?"

"Yes, Mr. Nathan!" Rico chirped, hopping down from her seat. Finally getting on her feet again felt good after sitting still for the past while, and she wasted no time in exploring around the terminal. There were lots of shops to look at and lots of places to eat, but she was neither hungry nor in particular want of any merchandise. Rico went on walking for a bit, unaware that she was starting to leave Nathan's line of sight. However, the American didn't seem particularly distressed, and as he caught her slipping out of sight, Nathan didn't call out to her. Instead, he opened his luggage and pulled out a very tiny remote-controlled replica of a Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution VIII that fit neatly in the palm of his hand. Behind the 'tinted' window glass on the car was a tiny high-resolution fiber-optic camera that fed video via Wi-Fi back to his netbook, which was now running an app for the little car. It had started life as a cheap little toy best used indoors on rainy days, but with some help from the folks at Q-branch (Fiona seemed to be blushing a lot and he had no idea why...), it was now a handy little surveillance rig that could scout ahead in tight spaces as small as a water pipe. Flicking the switch on the bottom of the car to the 'on' position, he saw the front wheel steering servo self-test before he set the little car on the ground.

"All right, let's see what Rico's up to..."

Nathan held down the 'w' key on his netbook, and the diminutive Lancer Evo was off like a shot, expertly avoiding being stepped upon or kicked or rolled over by people's feet as they traversed the terminal floor. A few turns and weaves later, the fiber-optic camera tracked Rico to a small island in the midst of the shopping area of the terminal where multiple luggage carts were parked neatly in a line and secured on a rail.

Rico looked intently at the yellow sign attached to the parking island, which bore the brand name 'SmartCarte'. Inspecting the machine, she saw that there was a central unit that accepted money and credit cards, and then towards the very bottom, a small metal flap with writing that read: "Reward for cart return." Her interest piqued, Rico scanned the area for carts that looked like the ones already secured to the kiosk. She locked onto one that was sitting unused near a toy store and strode towards it, grasped it by its handlebar and guided it briskly back into the kiosk. The small outer wheel that slid into the securing rail rolled into the guide neatly and then tripped a small lever as it locked into place, fitting in neatly with the cart in front of it. Rico heard a small 'clank' emanate from the area of the metal flap, and she went to investigate. Pushing the flap forward, she was surprised to find money in the form of a £2 pound coin. She held it to the light, the inlaid cupro-nickel profile portrait of Queen Elizabeth II gleaming inside the outer nickel-brass ring. Pocketing the coin, she looked around and found two more carts already stacked against each other near one of the boarding areas, and so she grabbed them and returned them to the kiosk, resulting in two clanking noises from the coin return. This time, she pulled out two more £2 pound coins, giving her a total of £6 pounds sterling in pocket money. Rico smiled a little bit—this was beginning to get fun.

* * *

At the arcade, Allison and Triela watched the two boys playing _Time Crisis 3_. The pair was on their last lives each despite only being on Area 1 of the first stage. At this point, both players had fallen into a constant pattern of shooting two rounds at an on-screen enemy and then ducking to reload (by releasing the foot pedal). The ammunition for their special weapons (an available machine gun, shotgun, and grenade launcher) was already depleted, and they failed to blast away any of the specific enemies that would drop ammunition, leaving them only with the basic handgun. This was proving problematic as they faced down the 'boss' character of the area, which was a piece of naval artillery.

The player on the left finished reloading and pressed down on the pedal to pop up and fire, but it was a poorly-timed maneuver that took away his last piece of health as the naval gun aimed directly at him and blew him to bits. As the continue screen began its twenty-second countdown, he aimed one last shot, choosing the 'no' option and then returned the lightgun controller to its metallic holster, leaving the rest of the game to his partner on the right side of the dual-screen machine. For his part, the remaining player found a slightly more effective strategy of popping up and using his free hand's index finger to rapidly work the trigger to spam all nine handgun rounds in the magazine at the target, slowly but surely whittling down its health. However, just as he reloaded with less than a centimeter of health left in the boss character's bar and about 15 seconds left on the countdown clock (the basis for the title _Time Crisis_), a random opponent popped up and shot him, taking down his last bit of health. Unwilling to spend any more money on the game, the player also shot the 'no' option on the continue screen and holstered the plastic pistol.

"Let's get out of here- that bloody game is rigged." complained one of the boys.

As the two began to walk away, Allison stepped up to the machine, but remembered Triela was also there.

"Blue gun or pink gun, Triela?" Allison asked.

"Um... Blue gun."

"Then I'll take Pink."

As Triela stepped up to the blue side of the machine, Allison fished out a stack of sixteen tokens from the pocket of her jeans and divided them into smaller stacks of eight. She handed one stack off to Triela, keeping a stack for herself and immediately started feeding them all into the machine.

"Rule one of these arcade games, Triela; get at least two credits' worth of tokens before you even start."

"Why is that?" asked 'The Princess'.

"Most of these games give you twenty seconds to continue if you lose all your lives." Allison explained. "If you don't have the tokens on you right then and there, you're forced to hop off, scramble to the change machine, feed that money as fast as you can, and scramble back before your twenty seconds are up. In that duration, you'll either run out of time, or someone impatient will hijack the machine from you."

"I see. I'll remember that next time I'm at an arcade, I guess."

"Good, then let's begin. Feed all eight coins into the slot until you have two credits."

Triela began inserting the coins, the game in front of her producing a sound with each coin inserted, the text on-screen changing with the increasing amount of tokens. When she looked up, Allison already had her lightgun out of its holster.

"Ready to get started?"

"Sure. Is there a button I press?"

"Just the trigger on your controller. Aim at the screen and give it a squeeze."

Picking up the blue pistol from its holster, Triela let the weighted muzzle hang down a little as she felt how it was to hold it in her hands. It was a hefty, chunky thing, not at all like her lithe SIG. And the attached cord that was connected to the bottom of the grip made the pistol feel more awkward to maneuver with. Still, she didn't want to waste Allison's time, and she lined up the front sight with the screen in front of her and pulled the trigger, noting practically no resistance at all in the trigger pull. However, the plastic slide on the pistol did jump back, and Triela scrambled to avoid dropping it, her surprise at the sudden recoil causing the lightgun to slip from her grip. The boys who quit the game earlier chuckled as they watched 'The Princess' fumble.

"Yeah, you kind of need to expect that- _Time Crisis_ is probably the only arcade game series that has recoil simulation." Allison commented.

"Would've been nice to know that beforehand." retorted Triela, then looking at the screen. "There's a couple of options here. What do I pick?"

"2-player option."

Triela aimed at the 2-player selection and pulled the trigger, now having fully expected the pistol's recoil, which felt rather tame, like a .22LR. Allison also selected the 2-player option on her side, causing both screens to linger for a second before fading to black and into a cinematic. As soon as the words "SHOOT SCREEN TO SKIP!" flashed in the upper-right corner of the screen, however, Allison opened fire, denying Triela any chance to see the story.

"Trust me- the story's just a tad too silly to be taken seriously. You'll see this with the boss characters."

The action was quickly beginning, as "-WAIT-" flashed on the screen in red capital letters as their respective screens jumped into first-person view, on-screen enemies already taking potshots at them that sailed harmlessly past. Then...

"ACTION!"

Allison immediately took aim and started blasting away at the enemies on-screen, double-tapping every opponent she saw on-screen, the pink lightgun in her hands clacking back and forth in quick succession. Triela took aim at the screen and pulled the trigger, but all she got in response was a voice that announced she had selected the machine gun. Pulling the trigger again, the voice announced, "Shotgun!" Another trigger pull; "Grenade!"

"Allison, I can't shoot anything!"

"Pull the trigger one more time, and then hold down the foot pedal!"

Triela looked down, and sure enough, there was a metal plate right at her toes. Swearing under her breath, she pulled the trigger, cycling her weapon selection back to the standard handgun and planted her foot down on the pedal. Her on-screen view changed, and now she was finally able to help Allison in dispatching the enemies on-screen. She had gotten three rounds off before the screen was cleared and "-WAIT-" flashed once again on-screen as the scene moved to another part of the beach the in-game characters were assaulting. When the game re-commenced action, Triela spent the last of her handgun rounds before the game commanded her to reload. She tried pulling the handgun slide to no effect, and as she tried to figure out how to reload, a red ring flashed on-screen, and without warning, her character was hit, reducing a life.

"Allison! How do I reload?"

"Let go of the foot pedal!"

Triela released pressure on the foot pedal, causing the view to change as her character ducked behind cover. At the bottom-left of the screen nine handgun rounds appeared where there were previously none, and Triela pressed the foot pedal again. As she popped up, an enemy with an assault rifle charged toward her firing wildly, and Triela focused on terminating him. When he failed to go down with the first shot, Triela fired again, the plastic pistol in her hands cycling the slide, and a thin green bar hovering over her target was growing smaller. Triela emptied the magazine at him before releasing the pedal momentarily to reload before popping up again, but the red ring flashed again, circling a red-clad opponent whose bullet met its mark, reducing yet another life from Triela's character. Allison then offered some helpful advice.

"When you see the red ring, let the pedal go! And always shoot the guys in red first!"

"Got it!"

Popping up again, Triela blasted away the red-clad enemy and took aim at one wearing bright yellow. With three shots (just to be sure), Triela was surprised to see three symbols pop up on screen, marked MACHINE GUN, SHOTGUN, and GRENADE before they flew down towards the corresponding pictograms on the bottom of the screen. This being the last opponent of the screen, -WAIT- flashed for a few moments again before she and Allison were put into action once again. Triela floored the foot pedal to get out from behind cover with a freshly loaded magazine to pick off a bunch of bad guys on the cliff face in front of her. Suddenly, the lighthouse located on the cliff exploded, severing the top part and sending it down towards them. While Allison released her pedal to take cover, Triela stayed out of cover to blast the remaining opponents onscreen despite a large exclamation point flashing in front of her and the game announcer robotically shouting "Danger! Danger!" Triela tried to wait it out until the last second before releasing the foot pedal, but it was too late. The falling debris took away the last bit of health she had, bringing up the continue screen. As the countdown began, Triela was going to select the 'no' option, but then noticed that there was still one credit remaining. As the seconds ticked by, Triela cleared her head. She was not going to screw up anymore, now that she knew what to expect and what to do. Raising the blue pistol in her hands, she aimed at the 'yes' block and squeezed the trigger, throwing her right back into the game with full health. Allison had already moved the game on to the next area, and Triela quickly played catch-up.

* * *

Nathan watched with some amusement as a smiling Rico guided five more luggage carts back into the SmarteCarte kiosk for a total count of fifteen carts recovered. Walking over to the reward slot, Rico fished out five more £2-pound coins and stashed them in her pocket, which was already bulging with change. She was about to venture forth again when she felt a hand on her shoulder, turning to find a uniformed Authorised Firearms Officer of the Metropolitan Police Service with a Heckler & Koch MP5SFA3 semi-automatic carbine slung across his body atop his body armor standing behind her. The large, muscular man crouched down so that he was more or less eye-level with Rico before speaking to her gently and sympathetically.

"Sorry to bother you, little miss." began the officer. "But I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to stop what you're doing. I know you're not getting in anyone's way, but we have workers here who can take care of that."

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir." replied Rico in lightly-accented English. "I was just having some fun making a little bit of money. Should I give it back?" she asked, reaching into her pocket.

"Oh no, you can keep it, dear. That's your money now." replied the officer, holding up his palms. "What's your name, little girl?"

"Rico!" chirped the young cyborg enthusiastically, eliciting a small smile from the officer.

"Well then, Rico, I'm Constable Morley. Can you tell me where your mum, dad, or trusted grown-ups you know are?"

Before Rico could answer, a voice called out some distance away from them.

"Rico? Ah, there you are!"

Nathan approached the pair, his netbook secured in his briefcase now and his spy car off the floor and in his pocket.

"Mr. Nathan!" Rico greeted.

"Sir, is this your child?" asked Morley.

"No, but we know each other well. Her father asked me to keep watch on her while he went to get something to eat, and I was keeping an eye on her from the seating area back there." Nathan replied, gesturing to the seats near the windows of the terminal. "I hope she wasn't giving you any trouble?"

"Not at all, sir. But we try not to let children run around unsupervised."

"My apologies, officer. It won't happen again."

"Thank you, sir. For what it's worth, all Rico here was doing was making the most of an opportunity." replied Morley before turning to Rico.

"Well carry on then, Rico. It was nice meeting you."

"It was nice meeting you too, Constable Morley." replied Rico, bowing her head respectfully.

"Sorry about any trouble, Constable." said Nathan, bowing his head as well.

"It was no trouble at all, sir. I was just making sure everything was all right with Rico here. Enjoy your day."

The two parties separated ways as Rico and Nathan in the opposite direction from the armed constable, who continued on his patrol of the terminal. As Nathan and Rico walked back to the boarding area, Nathan asked Rico about her haul.

"So how much did you end up getting before the Constable stopped you?"

"Let's see..." said Rico, counting out the coins in her pocket, "15 coins... and at £2 pounds each, that's £30 pounds, all in all."

Nathan let out a low whistle. "Well done, Rico! That's a pretty good amount of cash- you should be able to get something nice with that much in your pocket."

"But what should I buy?"

"Well, that's really all up to you. It's your money, after all. You don't even have to spend it."

"Mr. Nathan, I'm not sure about keeping money to myself. Certain...incidents, tend to happen if cyborgs are found harboring any amount of cash for long periods of time." Rico said somewhat cryptically.

"Say no more." replied Nathan with a knowing nod. He steered Rico into a duty-free toy store before stopping, allowing Rico to face the rows of shelves packed with toys and games.

"If you need a way to get rid of that cash and reward yourself, look no further. Take your time, and be sure to check the price before you commit."

"You mean that, Mr. Nathan?"

"I do. And if Jean asks, point him to me- I'll talk this over with him if I have to."

* * *

Back at the arcade, Allison and Triela dealt their final shots at the screen as they finished entering their three-letter initials for the high score screen, having completed the entire game in the span of 45 minutes. As soon as they each fired at the 'OK' button, both girls blew a light breeze over the muzzles of their lightguns before re-holstering them. The high score screen soon popped up, scrolling upwards showing the initials of everyone who had managed to finish the game. Most of the scores were six-figure sums. When "ALI" and "TRI" popped up, however, their scores reached 5,000,000 and 4,000,000 respectively. They were the highest scores the machine had ever recorded, and the third-place high score record was a mere 200,000 points by comparison. The two stepped away from the machine and went to find their sister cyborgs, leaving the two boys who were playing earlier staring in amazement at the high scores they logged- these would remain forever- or at least until a power outage occurred.

"Okay- that was surprisingly fun." said Triela. "Didn't get boring at all, much to my surprise."

"Glad you liked it, Tri." Allison replied. "Personally, I think we should have a machine like this back at the compound."

"What, for training purposes?"

"As much for that as entertainment. Plus it's cheap and saves a bundle on ammunition. And it's just fun!"

"I bet if you ran that past your pals at Q-branch, even _they_ would look at you funny."

"Really? I think Heinrich would be all for it- I'm pretty sure he's got 'gamer' somewhere in him."

Approaching the linked-up _Tekken 5_ machines, the two found Johanneke managed to attract a small crowd of spectators as she administered yet another beatdown on a newcomer while using the character of Asuka Kazama. The game announcer prompted the start of the first round, and in a flurry of button presses, Johanneke executed an 11-hit combo that wiped out the opposing player's health in the span of five seconds. The game announcer rewarded Johanneke with a simple "Perfect!" to signify that she had bested her opponent without losing any health.

"I wasn't ready for that one!" yelled the boy on the other machine.

"All right, hold on to your ass for round two!" retorted Johanneke, drawing cheers from the small crowd behind her. The celebration animations ran their course, and then the game announcer came on again.

"Round 2...FIGHT!"

This time, Johanneke actually let the other player take a shot at her, but she quickly countered the hit and turned it into another devastating combo that reduced her opponents health to zero in large chunks with every bone-crunching grapple. Her opponent vanquished, Johanneke stood up and held her arms out.

"Next!" she announced, before catching sight of Triela and Allison. Allison made a gesture of whirling a finger in a circle and then pointing to her watch. Johanneke nodded and then went to enter her initials in the high score screen before going to join them as the crowd dispersed. Erina soon joined them, as well.

"Done already, Erina?" asked Allison.

"It beats _DJ Hero_, but not by much. Needs more buttons and things."

"It's only a game, remember? You mix all the time, so I guess the game version is pretty boring for you, huh?" asked Triela.

"Not terribly so. How'd you guys do with _Time Crisis_?"

"First and second place." replied Allison. "What about you, Johanneke?"

"10 players beaten in a row. I think at this rate, Lucy's the only one who can kick my ass at _Tekken_." replied the Afrikaner. "Now then, where to?"

"Let's go find our handlers."

* * *

**16 hours later- Ninoy Aquino International Airport; Metro Manila, Philippines**

The persistent twanging noise in his ears served as a reminder to Jean of how much he regretted entrusting Rico's care to that mischievous American named Nathan Gilbert. He should've known from the moment that he saw Rico unwrapping the toy banjo she had bought whilst under Nathan's care that he would be subject to musical misery as his cyborg made an effort to increase her dexterity—one off-key note at a time. Granted, she was being proactive, but hearing her struggling to play a coherent song—'Mary Had a Little Lamb', to be exact—wore thin on the elder Croce brother's nerves, and the best he could do was request a pair of earplugs from the flight attendant while Rico continued to labor away at her banjo during flight, Jean resisting the urge to reach over and smack her upside the head in public or break the instrument into two. Thankfully, Rico was eventually politely requested by a flight attendant to stop playing due to some discreet complaints from the passengers around her, but this still left the airport terminals at Hong Kong International Airport and Ninoy Aquino International Airport fair game. At the very least, their stopover in Hong Kong gave Allison the opportunity to show Rico some learning material on her iPhone so that Rico could better learn how to play her new instrument she had gotten in London. This in turn led to repeated plays of 'Mary Had a Little Lamb' during the flight to the Philippines, but at least Jean could now actually make out music. The problem now was that Jean heard the same song over, and over, and over, and over again, and he desperately wished that Rico would learn another goddamned song before he gouged out his eardrums.

Fortunately, as they arrived at NAIA, Rico chose to put away her banjo now that they were on-site. After picking up their luggage from the carousel, the group proceeded to find an exit and a means of getting to Basilan. Before they even got out of the concourse, however, Nathan's attention was drawn to a bearded man dressed in a polo shirt and khakis holding a placard that read 'GILBERT'. Recognizing the man behind the sign, Nathan smiled and called out to him.

"Long time no see, Ketchup." greeted Nate.

"Naayyythaan!" greeted the man in return. "Good to see you, m'man!"

"Hey, Mike." Erina greeted as she joined Nathan. Turning his attention to her, Nathan's friend greeted her in return.

"Hey, if it isn't Erina!" said Mike, extending his palm for a high five. "Gimme some!"

"Up high." said Erina, starting a complicated greeting sequence of a high five, a low five, a fist pound with a locking motion, and then an 'exploding' gesture that confused her sister cyborgs and their handlers. Finally, Nate turned to his colleagues and introduced the newcomer to them.

"Guys, this is Michael Heinz; case officer for the Basilan region and an old friend of mine. He's our ride to the AO."

"Pleased to meet you all, Ladies and gentlemen." said Michael before shaking hands with the handlers. "Now if you'll all follow me, we have a plane waiting on the tarmac to take us to Zamboanga City, where we connect with a helicopter to take us to Isabela City in Basilan."

With Michael leading the way, the SWA rescue contingent extricated themselves from the crowds of the hundreds of passengers in the terminal, following Nathan's colleague through various corridors and hallways until they found an exit to the tarmac. As they exited outdoors, the sudden temperature change caught a few of the of the fratello off-guard, surprised by the blanket of stifling, humid air washing over them.

"Dear god, it's hot!" exclaimed Allison.

"You spend enough time in this country, you get used to it." noted Michael. "Don't worry, you'll be able to acclimate yourself to the climate even in the short-term as long as you take it easy for a little while and drink plenty of water. We've got a case of Perrier on the plane- you guys must be thirsty after your flight."

"That's very kind of you, Mr. Heinz, but we really need to get to Basilan as soon as possible." interrupted Jean. "We're being counted on to rescue the Prime Minister's niece and her family."

"Of course, of course." replied Michael, stopping at an unmarked solid blue Ford Econoline van. "If you'll all get in, it will be a short drive to the plane."

Minutes later, a pearl white Dassault Falcon 900 took off from the runway with the 6 SWA fratelli and some CIA officers aboard, setting course for Zamboanga City International Airport. As the private jet gained altitude, the view out the window changed, revealing more and more of Metro Manila in all its urban vastness, the waters of Manila Bay expanding as they climbed.

In the cabin, Allison uncapped a chilled bottle of lemon-flavored Perrier mineral water and poured a ration into a plastic tumbler before greedily downing the relieving, refreshing beverage, a satisfied exhale escaping her lips when she finished swallowing.

"Oh, that's heaven." Breathed Allison, offering the bottle to Brian. "You want some?"

"I'm fine." replied her brother. "You look like you need it more, anyway." he added, taking note of the sweat beading on Allison's forehead.

"We still have plenty more, so don't worry about emptying a bottle or two." Michael announced. At this news, Allison took the bottle in her hand and cut out the middleman of the plastic tumbler by drinking directly from the bottle.

"So how are things around here, Ketchup?" Nathan asked.

"Oh, you know how it is—running gun battles, the occasional bombing, same shit different day, really. How's Italy?"

"Lots of political strife, Ketchup. Something's happening every day, but it's not always up to us to do something about it."

At this point, Triela went to interrupt as she sat behind the two. "I'm sorry to interrupt, Mr. Nathan, but why are you referring to Mr. Heinz as 'Ketchup'?"

"Oh, _that_." replied Nathan, breaking into a smile. "That's just a habit from when we were in training—Anyone who knew this guy here referred to him as 'Ketchup' because of his last name, Heinz. People would ask if he was related in any way to the Heinz Ketchup Company, and the nickname kind of stuck even when he clearly said he wasn't."

"I never really liked it at first, but it kinda grew on me." added Michael. "And sometimes, it's easier to call me by that when there's so many 'Michaels' running around."

"I see." Triela noted. After pausing a beat, she asked, "Mr. Nathan, did _you_ have a nickname while in training?"

"I seem to recall being called 'Egghead' a lot, but that was more a tame insult than an actual nickname." replied Erina's handler.

"Well, you kind of expect that when you tell people you graduated MIT when you were 18—_nerd_." Michael retorted.

A few seats behind them, Jean was staring out the window when he heard the twang of a banjo string. Dreading what he would see, he slowly turned to find Rico getting ready to play her toy banjo again. Reaching into his pocket with a groan, he pulled out a pack of earplugs and stuffed them in his ears as Rico began playing 'Mary Had a Little Lamb' again. As she played, Michael turned in his seat to watch Rico go through the short song.

"She's pretty good for a beginner." Michael noted. "How long has she had that thing?"

"Believe it or not, for less than 24 hours. She got that with money earned from returning those 'SmarteCarte' things when we were on layover in Heathrow." Nathan replied. "She's been doing that to increase her dexterity."

"Is she one of the first-gens you've been telling me about?"

"Yeah. She doesn't have the same internal components that Erina has. I do believe that she's technically older than Erina, but from what I learned, growth and physical development becomes dormant when one of these girls is put into the augmentation process."

"Locking them in time, at least physically- crazy stuff." Michael finished. As he made this comment, Rico finished playing her tune, prompting some applause from Michael. Rico looked up, not expecting to see Nathan's friend clapping in appreciation.

"That was very good. What's your name?"

"Rico, sir. And thank you very much."

"Rico, do you mind if I borrow your banjo? I'd like to play a tune."

"No problem, Mr. Heinz!" Rico happily conceded. She handed over the instrument to the Basilan Case Officer, who began playing a fast-paced tune that caught Brian's attention.

"Is that...?"

Then, Michael began singing the words to the song he was playing, confirming Brian's guess that Nathan's colleague was playing his rendition of Flogging Molly's _Drunken Lullabies_:

"_Must it take a life for hateful eyes  
To glisten once again  
Five hundred years like Gelignite  
Have blown us all to hell  
What savior rests while on his cross we die  
Forgotten freedom burns  
Has the Shepard led his lambs astray  
to the bigot and the gun?_

Must it take a life for hateful eyes  
To glisten once again  
'Cause we find ourselves in the same old mess  
Singin' drunken lullabies…"

A few minutes later, a more festive mood was the atmosphere aboard the private jet as Michael finished out 'Drunken Lullabies', having managed to get everyone except Jean singing at least the last half of the chorus. As Michael neared the end, his audience sang with him in response.

"_Must it take a life for hateful eyes, to glisten once again?_" Michael sang, nodding to his audience as their cue.

"_'Cause we find ourselves in the same old mess, singin' drunken lullabies!" _chorused those enjoying themselves.

"_Singin' Drunken Lullabies, right!_"

Michael finished with a flourish on Rico's banjo, prompting applause from his listeners before graciously handing back the instrument to the blonde-haired sniper.

"Mr. Heinz, you're amazing!" Rico breathed. "Was that really _my_ banjo?"

"It was. You just need to know how to hit the right notes. Anyone can do this- it just takes practice." Michael replied.

"Could you teach me how to play?" Rico asked hopefully.

"Well, I'll do what I can, but we don't have a lot of time, so let's get started." said Michael, earning a happy expression that lit up Rico's face.

* * *

**5 km outside Colonia, Basilan; Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao, Philippines**

"Ah!" gasped Isabella with a slight hiss—it was another cramp, another contraction was happening, but she was fairly sure that it wasn't a 'real' contraction signaling imminent childbirth- at least, she hoped not. Seeing his wife's face contorted in a painful wince, Ronaldo did his best to comfort his wife. At the very least, their captors had acquiesced to free them from their bonds once it was clear Isabella and Ronaldo would have no chance to escape and were too preoccupied with the possibility of their child being born.

"Breathe, Isabella." Ronaldo gently commanded as he held his wife. "Remember your breathing exercises."

"Okay...okay..." Isabella replied, inhaling and exhaling in a rhythmic pace. The pain from the contractions quickly began to fade away, having practiced this method of relief so many times. However, what was worrying was the increasing regularity of the contractions, possibly leading to the real thing. And without medical help, surrounded by people willing to kill them, the Morettis knew they were in a truly desperate situation.

Nearby, one of their captors watched as Isabella breathed rhythmically to ease the pain of her contractions before turning away to talk to the leader of the group.

"_**Ahmed, the woman looks like she could give birth anytime soon**__**. What do we do when that happens?"**_ the subordinate asked.

"_**Then we raise the price of their freedom, Fadir. If the Italians fail to pay, we make an example out of the entire family."**_replied Ahmed, prompting indignation and shock from Fadir.

"_**You intend to kill a child? A newborn, at that?"**_

"_**Of course. We aren't prepared for the complication an infant will bring to our situation. Besides you forget, the child is the spawn of the infidel, and we are in a Jihad. Civilians or soldiers, young or old, they are still the enemies of Islam."**_

Watching their captors converse, the Morettis tried to guess what was going on based on the way they were reacting.

"What are they talking about?" Isabella whispered.

"Not sure- I picked up only a few English words in all that. It sounds like they're arguing. Though." replied Ronaldo in a hush.

"Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?"

"I don't know, honey. I hope it's a good thing."

The two sat in silence as Ahmed and Fadir continued their conversation. Then...

"Ronaldo."

"Yes, Isabella?"

"I'm sorry I got us into this." Isabella whispered regretfully, tears flowing from her eyes. "All I wanted was to have some time together, just ourselves before the baby was born, and now-"

"Shhhh... It's not your fault." Ronaldo reassured. "I should've been more careful at the hotel; I was too naive, too trusting. I should be the one apologizing."

"Ronaldo, I love you too much to be blame you for this, and you know I don't want to lose you. But what do we do?"

"All we can do now is wait and hope."

With that, Ronaldo held Isabella closer in a tight embrace, silently praying for their safety.

* * *

**Barangay Tabuk, Isabela City, Basilan; Zamboanga Peninsula Region, Philippines**

As the Bell UH-1H Iroquois helicopter powered down behind them, the SWA delegation, led by Michael, made their way into the garrison of the Philippine Army's 15th Special Forces Airborne Company. As the lead case officer for the Basilan region, Michael's job was to advise and assist the Philippine Army in battling the terrorist insurgency that plagued the southern islands of the Philippines. As such, the CIA brought to the Philippines (in cooperation with the U.S. Military) weapons, equipment, specialist personnel, and instructors that were not normally accessible given the limited budget of the Philippine Army and the overall strength of the Philippine economy in comparison to the rest of the world. In exchange, Michael's small slice of the CIA was a long-term guest in the garrison, and even had its own little corner set up in an unused office in the garrison. In addition, the CIA Special Activities Division brought in weapons that would fit right in with (and in some cases were better than) the kind of equipment the 15th Special Forces Airborne Company used. In fact, it was the Armory to where the six fratello were guided by Michael.

"I was informed you would need to procure weapons on-site for this mission because of potential airport security problems, but the last thing you want to do around here is risk a back-alley deal with some gun runner selling you shoddy equipment." Michael said, pressing the buzzer to alert the armorer that they were there.

"Thank you again for arranging this, Mr. Heinz." said Jean. "This saves us a great deal of time and ensures we will have reliable equipment."

"Don't thank me; thank Nathan. He had a great deal of involvement in planning this mission. I just carried out a request."

The armorer opened the door to the room full of weapons, and Michael ushered the SWA delegation in.

"Take your picks, but do remember that they have to be returned in one piece."

With these words, the cyborgs and handlers were turned loose in the armory to have a look around. Each of the cyborgs and handlers had a role to fill, ranging from assaulters to breachers and pointmen, to fire support and marksmen. Jean and Rico immediately went towards the Designated Marksman and purpose-built sniper rifles while Johanneke and Marcus looked through everything from shotguns and submachine guns to assault rifles and general-purpose machine guns along with Triela and Hilshire. Then, something finally caught Johanneke's eye.

"Whoa. Is that what I think it is?" asked Johanneke, prompting Michael to come over. He grinned when he saw what she was looking at.

"Oh yes, that's _exactly_ what you think it is." Michael replied. "Everyone loves using that thing on the range."

Johanneke took down from the shelf an M60E4 General Purpose Machine Gun. Descended from the original M60 'Pig' of Vietnam War fame, the weapon retained its grandfather's potent 7.62x51mm NATO chambering and quick-change barrel, but it was lighter, more reliable, and most importantly, designed to be used on the move, with its built-in foregrip and numerous accessory rails. This one, however, featured a new party piece- a suppressor.

"How much better is it with the suppressor?" Johanneke asked, hefting the large machine gun and shouldering it.

"Well, there's no muzzle flash anymore that'll make you blind from the control end. And while the noise you get with the suppressor isn't the quietest, it's still a big difference compared to the unsuppressed signature, and from the business end of things, it's harder to hear, since any noise still generated by the weapon is almost entirely directed towards the user, if at all." Michael said. "To be frank, it will sound a bit more like an assault rifle than a full-blown machine gun, so the opposition shouldn't have an exact idea as to what firepower they're up against, at least in theory."

"Cool. I think I'll take this one." said Johanneke with a grin, racking the charging handle and dry-firing the machine gun.

Meanwhile, Triela and Hilshire were browsing the shotguns on the wall. A look of worry furrowed Triela's face as she could not find anything that was similar to her pump-action Winchester M1897. It seemed this armory had decided almost entirely on semi-automatic or full-automatic shotguns, which she was very reluctant to use. To her, semi-automatics and full-automatics seemed complicated with too much potential for unreliability and malfunction, whereas weapons like her trusty Winchester were simple and were less likely to let her down in the middle of a firefight. If you ran into a bad shell, your hand was already on the pump, and all you needed to do was slide it back and forth without removing your weapon from the target to chamber what is hopefully a functioning shell.

"Hilshire, there's nothing here that I can use- they're all semi-or full-automatic." Triela complained.

"Beggars can't be choosers, Triela. You know that. Besides, even with replacement parts, your Winchester's not going to last forever. You never know when something will happen to it; maybe some Padanian will happen to get a lucky shot and blow it to pieces, and your Winchester will be a total loss and can't be replaced because it's logistically impractical to do so and you'll be forced to use something newer and a bit more technologically advanced."

"Like that'll ever happen." Triela scoffed. "You know what's more likely? My Winchester will outlast _me_."

At this, Hilshire went silent at the rather pessimistic thought. Triela was probably right, but he hated it when she spoke things like that. Maybe it was a way to get him to shut up, but it was a bad way of doing it. With a sigh, he gathered a few of the shotguns from the shelf and handed them to Triela.

"Even so, your Winchester isn't here with you. You need to work with what's available. Find what works for you, get your eye in, and stick with it."

"Fine, Hilshire. But it doesn't mean I have to like it."

"Hey Triela, check it out!" said Johanneke's voice from behind Hilshire, who stepped aside. Triela could see the short-haired blonde Afrikaner holding a fairly large and blackened blade, slowly swinging it through the air to get a feel for the balance of the weapon.

"I found a Bolo knife. Pretty sweet, huh?" Johanneke asked, prompting a smirk from Triela.

"Oh yeah. That's definitely you."

"Planning on taking point, I hope? There's tall grass that needs to be hacked away before we get to the target." Nathan said, peeking his head past one of the shelves.

"Oh, I'm planning more than just trimming the jungle's lawn with this baby..." Johanneke said with a smile.

Meanwhile, Erina browsed the shelves, seemingly unimpressed by the selection. "No Vectors or ACRs in here? Mike, I'm disappointed." she noted in a sort of teasing disapproval.

"Well _sorry,_ your highness, but 'on-site procurement' applies to you, too." Michael shot back in the same tone. "Besides, we don't have spare parts for your fancy next-gen plastic space marine guns, so we don't have them in here. You're just gonna have to use a Heckler & Koch or something, like the rest of us commoners."

"Fine, but only because you're my friend, Mike," Erina replied with a smile before grabbing a Heckler & Koch UMP45 from the shelf, equipped with an Aimpoint CompM2 Red Dot Sight. "I suppose this will have to do." she said with a theatrical sigh.

Nearby, Allison and Brian browsed what seemed to be an entire wall full of Colt M16's, M4's and all their derivatives. They all had the same basic design, so the only way to tell them apart was to look at them up close, look at the barrel configuration, or have a look at the way various accessory rails and other components were presented on the weapon.

"They sure love the AR platform over here, don't they?" Allison asked.

"That they do." Brian replied. "From what I can remember, most folks here don't even call them an M4, M16, or what have you. Regardless of whoever makes it, they simply call in an 'Armalite'."

"Shows how ubiquitous it is, I suppose."

"Might as well pick one, Allie." Brian added, looking at his watch. "You're spoilt for choice as it is."

"I'd much rather have my Tavor, but we're supposed to procure on-site... fine. Let's at least make it the genuine article." relented Allison, reaching for a Colt M4A1 Carbine. This example had undergone the 'Special Operations Modification' (SOPMOD) treatment, and as a result, had a modular Rail Interface System (RIS) mounted where the front handguard previously was. Four accessory rails made up the RIS, upon which she could mount anything from lasers, to flashlights, to grips, and even underbarrel weapon systems like the M203 Grenade Launcher or the Remington 870-based KAC Masterkey shotgun system. The carrying handle had also notably been removed, revealing a 20mm accessory rail upon which an EOTech 552 HWS had been mounted, and both front and rear sights were replaced with fold-down backup units. A KAC quick-detach suppressor specifically built for the SOPMOD package was already affixed to the end of the barrel.

"This feels right," said Allison, hefting the carbine. "You pick something yet?"

"Thought I'd try something locally-made." Brian replied, pulling a FERFRANS Special Operations Assault Rifle (SOAR) from the shelf. The Irishman's selection distinguished itself from the other AR15-style weapons in front of them by bearing a built-in device known as a Rate Reduction System (RRS) that controlled the cyclic firing rate regardless of the weapon's barrel length, allowing the shooter to fire consistent controlled bursts without requiring a built-in burst-fire mechanism. Apart from that, the SOAR was essentially like the newer generation of AR15-based platforms that offered built-in accessory rails and a short-stroke piston system that improved reliability over the original direct-gas system of the Colt M16/M4 family.

"If there's no better proof that the locals love the AR platform than trying to produce one of their own, then there is no proof at all." Allison noted. "Question is, how's the quality?"

"Pretty excellent, given that it's mostly American-made." Michael piped in. "FERFRANS subcontracts other companies to supply the parts and stamp their logos on it. About the only thing indigenous on the SOAR is the RRS system, and even then, they've got someone doing the patent for them in the U.S. Market."

"Huh. I spoke too soon." said Brian. "Guess I better try this for myself at the range."

* * *

After the rescue team picked out the weapons they chose to try before deciding on a mission loadout, the six _fratelli_ were once again guided outside into the humid Philippine climate to visit the outdoor firing range. The first thing they noticed, however, was that there weren't any of the traditional silhouette targets set up for them to use. In fact, no targets of any sort were set up.

"What are we supposed to shoot at?" Triela asked, holding a different type of shotgun in each arm.

"Got your targets right here!" announced Erina, and everyone turned to see her carting in several used water cooler jugs.

"You can't be serious." Triela protested. "How the hell are we supposed to get our eye in with those things?"

"Filling them with water and dye will do the trick. You hit these things; they'll react visibly, if nothing else. Besides, I've got something Lucy and I have been working on a little that I've been wanting to try." replied Erina, reaching to her eyepiece and depressing a small button. She spoke a command into the built-in microphone, activating the voice recognition software inside the eyepiece.

"Launch AR Draw Utility."

The screen on the eyepiece responded immediately, opening up a new interface on her screen. Picking up one of the jugs, she pressed the button again to speak another command.

"Scan object, determine absolute center-of-mass."

Broad lines swept across the diminutive screen as the Augmented Reality software built into Erina's advanced eyepiece scanned a comprehensive snapshot of the mundane object in her hands before a crosshair appeared and a single dot flashed where the water jug's center-of-mass was.

"Anyone have a permanent marker?"

"Here you go." replied Annette, offering a Sharpie marker to the CIA cyborg. Erina uncapped the marker and then began drawing a large black dot where her eyepiece's computer said the exact center was. She then went to draw more outer rings, forming a picture-perfect (if rudimentary) bullseye target.

"And there _you_ go." said Erina, revealing her work. "So long as I repeat this process on the other jugs real quick, we'll have proper targets that leak when you shoot them properly, and we'll have our eyes in."

Erina fulfilled her promise, and soon, the range was alive with the echo of suppressed and unsuppressed gunfire. Downrange, as rounds struck their targets, the water jugs quivered with the force of the impacts, leaking water from the holes created as well as spewing liquid out their open tops when entire bursts hit.

Triela was experimenting with an MPS AA-12 automatic shotgun, loading a 10-round box magazine and racking the charging handle before shouldering the weapon and taking aim. Exhaling, she squeezed the trigger, and was met with a series of hammer blows from the combat shotgun's cyclic recoil that surprised her, but she quickly adjusted in time as the magazine ran dry. Without missing a beat, she locked back the charging handle and replaced the 10-round box magazine with a 32-round drum before slamming the bolt home and opening fire in bursts until the drum was empty and her target lay tattered downrange. With a sigh, 'The Princess' safed the weapon and placed it down, dissatisfied with its performance.

"Too unwieldy... Let's try this next one."

Triela picked up the next shotgun Hilshire had pulled from the shelf for her, an American-made Remington 1100 Tactical. This one was semi-automatic, and having to ready the weapon using a side-mounted charging handle made Triela still feel like she was operating anything but a shotgun. Despite her misgivings, she shouldered the weapon anyway and aimed at the second jug set out for her downrange and squeezed the trigger. A single shot was fired, sending a neat cluster of buckshot into the water jug. Triela continued firing until the 5-round tube magazine was empty, at which point she safed the American-made semi-auto and set it down.

"Better... But what about this last one?"

Triela reached for the final weapon, and noted immediately that it was branded 'Benelli'. She thought it unusual that the Americans would bring around an Italian-made weapon, but if they adopted Berettas for police and military use, there also had to be some reason the CIA would have a Benelli in their armory.

Michael, who was watching the various fratello try out their weapons, took note of Triela's current weapon and smiled as he went over to her. By the time he reached the most senior of the first-gens, she was already plugging away at her last target, but he gave her some advice.

"I think you'll like that one; tweak that ring on the front of the forearm."

Triela followed the CIA officer's suggestion before taking hold of the forearm, only to notice some give. Pulling on the forearm of the Benelli, she was surprised to find that it was actually a pump-action shotgun.

"Whoa!" exclaimed Triela. "I can switch between Semi-automatic and pump-action?"

"Select-fire of the best kind." replied Michael. "Lets you use low-powered rounds with the pump-action while higher-power rounds will cycle the semi-auto system."

"Oh, I am _liking_ this!"

Triela proceeded to pop off a few rounds using the pump-action mechanism before quickly turning the knob in front of the pump to lock it and dumping the rest of the magazine on semi-automatic. She safed the weapon and held onto it, not placing it aside like the other two before it.

"I found the shotgun I want. It has to be the Benelli." Triela breathed. Hilshire came alongside her with a small smile.

"Think you might change over to that instead of your Winchester?" asked the German, causing Triela's excitement to wane as she tried to calm down.

"Y-yeah, right! Nothing will beat my trusty Winchester, I assure you. But if—and that's a very big 'if'—my Winchester fails, the Benelli M3 would be my next choice." Triela asserted, trying to rein in her perceived infidelity against her usual weapon.

"Hell yeah! Rock n' Roll!" boomed a voice from the firing lane next to them. Triela turned to see Johanneke opening up her suppressed M60E4 to load in another belt of 7.62x51 NATO. Beside her, Marcus smiled at his partner's jubilation while he reloaded his G36E's underbarrel AG36 grenade launcher. Snapping the breech closed, Marcus aimed through the grenade launcher's leaf sight and squeezed the grenade launcher's trigger, and about a second later, a water jug placed well downrange exploded in a maelstrom of plastic shrapnel and spraying water.

"That M60 treating you well, Johanneke?" asked Triela.

"Shoots like a dream, I kinda wanna take it home after this mission, and that hasn't even started yet!" replied the Afrikaner, slamming the top cover closed. "Time for another go!"

While Johanneke opened up on the targets downrange with her M60, Erina locked back the charging handle on her UMP45 before unloading the spent 30-round magazine. Beside her, Nathan did the same with his own UMP45, believing synchronity with his charge meant sharing the same weapons.

"Does it feel weird shooting an H&K?" Nathan asked out of curiosity.

"I haven't shot a Heckler & Koch gun in a long while, but I have to say it's kind of refreshing. I've almost forgotten what it means to deal with muzzle climb, however slight it may be. Shouldn't affect the mission, though."

"You planning on putting anything else on that thing?"

"Foregrip, at most. I want to keep this thing simple and leave the complicated stuff to the eyepiece."

"Then maybe you don't even need the EOTech?"

"Maybe. But I don't mind having it on. Even with my eyepiece, I wouldn't dare fire from the hip unless I can't extend my arms fully or shoulder a weapon."

"Shows I trained you well."

Handler and cyborg shared a brief smile before Michael interrupted them as he approached with a box that he held in his hands.

"I almost forgot, I have some mission equipment that you might like, Erina," said Michael.

"Lay it on me."

Michael opened the box to reveal a dozen cylindrical objects, one of which Erina removed to inspect, and she looked at it quizzically.

"Looks like a plain old flashbang to me."

"Do you see a safety lever on it?" Michael asked.

"No… Just a pin…" Erina replied, inspecting the stun grenade. "So how is this supposed to work? Are these blank-firing?"

"Try remotely-triggered," responded Michael with a grin. As he took the stun grenade in Erina's hand, he pointed to a small black plastic piece where a safety lever or 'spoon' would normally be. "See this? This is the receiver. All you gotta do is pull the hard plastic pin loose to close the circuit and get it ready, and you can safe it by pushing up that little tab in front of the pin area and re-inserting the pin."

"Can I set up multiple flashbangs and have them go off in sequence?" Erina asked.

"Or simultaneously." Michael replied, producing a peculiar-looking gauntlet-like device. "That's the responsibility of this second bit here. It's the remote trigger, and with it, you can set off up to six of these stun grenades at the same time. It also keeps track of the sequence in which the grenades have been armed so that you can plan accordingly. By the way, these modified flashbangs are based on Rheinmetall 9-bang devices, so you'll have a lot more stun time out of them."

"Very cool." Erina noted, looking at the remote and inspecting it. "Looks kinda clunky though. Beta version?"

"Well if we get time, we'll add GPS tracking combined with motion sensors and a touchpad so that it'll be possible to corral any hostiles into a specific route. We can also adapt the receiver system to standard frag and HE grenades."

"Keep me posted, Mike. I may yet make this part of my standard mission kit."

A few lanes down, Allison and Brian were advancing towards their targets, ripping off bursts from their respective AR-platform weapons until the bolt carriers locked back from after firing the last round in the magazine. Without pausing, they drew their Rock Island Armory 1911-A1 Tactical pistols, which were customized by the armorer with threaded barrels to accept the Gemtech Blackside 45 suppressors currently attached to them. Each shot rang out like a pneumatically driven nail gun due to the already-subsonic muzzle velocity of the .45ACP rounds used in the weapons, negating the need for any specially-loaded ammunition to render the suppressors effective.

As they closed in on their targets, Brian and Allison swapped fresh magazines into the grips of their sidearms and steadily plugged away with their pistols in hand until the slides locked back the moment the last spent casing flew out the ejection port.

"The locals sure know how to make a forty-five." Allison noted as she released the slide stop.

"They should—it had a significant role in Philippine history," said Brian, launching into a small history lesson. "Back when this place was an American colony won from the Spanish in the Spanish-American war, the U.S. was fighting the Philippine-American war, part of which was the Moro Rebellion, which occurred in this part of the country. The Americans discovered that both their .30-40 Krag-Jorgensen rifles and .38-caliber sidearms had no guts, and if you have a weapon that can't reliably knock down a charging, drugged-up, bolo-wielding Moro warrior, you need to get a better weapon with a more powerful round. John Moses Browning, the inventor of the M1911, was already working on a semi-auto designed around his .38 Colt Automatic cartridge, since he was working for Colt at the time. All he needed to do was a bit of re-engineering, and the great-grandfather of your Kimber, as well as the pistols we're using right now was born. And the design has not been changed ever since."

" 'If it ain't broke, don't fix it,' right?"

"Precisely."

* * *

Meanwhile, back at the insurgent camp outside of Colonia, The Morettis were repeating Isabella's breathing exercises after yet another series of Braxton-Hicks contractions struck, sending the couple into a moment of panic. Ronaldo made every effort to calm his wife down, unaware they were being watched by Fadir. The terrorist, who was once a student at De La Salle University's Dasmariñas City campus under his former name of Juan Ignacio-Ramirez, had been sympathetic to what he saw as the plight of the Muslim people in the Southern regions of the Philippines, and his opinion often got him into arguments with his staunchly Catholic and Islamophobic father. Then, after publishing a well-written essay in support of Muslim autonomy that quickly got the wrong kind of attention from De La Salle University's faculty, Juan's father made the decision to disown his son and forced him to leave the family residence for good. Disgruntled, Juan traveled to Indonesia, where he converted to Islam under the guidance of a radical Imam, who gave him his new name of Fadir Al-Asad. After his conversion to Islam, Fadir joined an Abu Sayaaf cell, and after a few months' training in Yemen, he would go back to the Philippines and embark on a trail of violence that began with simple skirmishes against police and regular military. This eventually escalated into kidnappings and beheadings, usually of well-to-do businessmen, military officers, and police chiefs.

The primary common thread these activities had, however, was that the victims and opposition were exclusively male and Filipino. This was the first time his cell had abducted foreigners, and at that, a family-to-be with links to the Italian Prime Minister. Fadir had an unsettling feeling in his gut—he wasn't 100 percent behind this operation, and he had voiced his concern when Ahmed stated that he would make an example of the family if the Italians refused to pay for their ransom. That was the difference between him and Ahmed, he thought: at least he had a heart. Or was it more that Ahmed was a coward? He wasn't sure, but either way, killing women and children was not something Fadir had any stomach for. He could understand bombing government buildings and soldiers' barracks, but killing women and children in cold blood crossed a line he himself was not willing to step over.

With a sigh, Fadir entered the room, MAC-10 in hand as the Morettis snapped their heads up upon sensing his presence. Fadir glanced at them momentarily before turning to the two guards in the room.

"_**You two can leave. I would like to speak to our guests alone."**_

The two guards obeyed, and they left Fadir alone in the room with the Morettis, their eyes locked on the MAC-10 in his hand currently aimed in their general direction. Then, Fadir sat down across from them so that they were all face-to-face, Fadir resting the MAC-10 on his thigh while keeping it trained on the hostages in front of him. Then, much to the surprise of Isabella and Ronaldo, Fadir started speaking to them in excellent English.

"Certainly, you both must be wondering what we are planning to do to the both of you." Fadir began. "Nod your heads if you understand what I am saying."

The Morettis nodded, and Fadir continued. "Your kidnapping was financially-motivated; only Ahmed really cares about troops being removed from Afghanistan; I don't believe it affects us here in the Philippines. Now for the important part. We gave your government 96 hours to pay your ransom, and to us, the two of you alone are worth $10 million American Dollars. Now, I'm no doctor, but—Missus Moretti is it? You look like you're about to have your child anytime soon, am I right?"

Isabella nodded, confirming Fadir's observation. "Well, if your child is born during this ordeal, Ahmed said the ransom price shall go up, by how much, I do not know. What I do know is that if your government is unable to pay, he intends to kill all of you and make an example out of your entire family."

The Morettis gasped in unison, but Fadir held his free hand up to stop them going any further, and he glanced around before continuing. "Let me finish. I might be a terrorist by definition, but I don't approve of killing women and children. Which is why I intend to help you all escape if things go badly."

"How are we supposed to trust you?" whispered Ronaldo guardedly. "How do we know you're not lying to us?"

"Why should we even listen to what you have to say?" added Isabella.

"Because neither of you are in any position to question me right now." replied Fadir, gesturing to the MAC-10 in his hand. "Regardless of my intentions, I am still the man with the gun here, so I recommend you give me your full attention."

The Morettis swallowed and nodded, allowing Fadir to go on.

"Now then, if Ahmed decides to attempt to execute you, I can only do one thing, and that is to start shooting. You hear any gunfire, that's your cue to leave."

"How can we leave if we're under armed guard?" asked Isabella.

"Because those guards will be shooting at me. Now that window behind you faces north…"

* * *

Back at the garrison in Isabela City, the rescue team had spent enough cartridges on their weapons to be familiar with their operation and shoot them accurately. Since their mission would not be taking place until nighttime, however, there would be a few hours to kill before they had to deploy. Given the length of their flight over, those hours would be best spent sleeping to attempt to recover from the jetlag incurred, at least for most people. However, considering that the rescue team was composed of multimillion-dollar cyborgs and mostly former military personnel focused on an extremely important mission, jetlag or not, they would have to deploy during the darkest hours of the night, and the best they could do was make a choice between feeding themselves to store energy or conserving energy by taking an extended nap. Hilshire, Marcus, and Sarah opted for the latter choice, though their cyborgs notably did not. As for the others, Jean chose to pore over the mission details again and re-check the maps along with Nathan, Erina, and Michael while Rico sat nearby cleaning the Mk 14 Mod 0 Enhanced Battle Rifle that Jean had pulled down from the armory wall for her to use, while Allison and Brian did the same with their AR-platform weapons. As the other four checked over the satellite images, Erina turned to her knapsack of goodies to retrieve another snack, and was momentarily puzzled to find nothing inside.

"Aw man, I'm out of food _already_?" Erina wondered aloud, her stomach then grumbling. The sound drew Nathan's attention as he brought his head up from the map laid out in front of them.

"Sounds like it's time for dinner, then." said the young American, turning to his friend. "Ketchup, you know any good places to get food around here?"

"Plenty." replied the Basilan case officer, getting up to stretch his legs. "There's definitely a few places that will serve pork and beef, but those aren't as prolific given the amount of Muslims in this region. But they still serve excellent eats nonetheless. Anything you guys want in particular while I'm out?"

"Actually, I was thinking of sending some of our team with you, Mr. Heinz." replied Jean, then turning to Brian, the only other handler in the room aside from himself and Nathan. "Brian, you and Allison can accompany Mr. Heinz—the cyborgs eat a lot, and he'll need to carry a meal large enough for all of us back here. Don't let him do it by himself."

"All right then." replied Brian, closing the upper and lower receivers of his SOAR. "I'm just about done cleaning my primary." he added, racking the charging handle and performing a function check. Allison did the same next to him before setting down her M4 on the table in front of her.

"Go with them, Erina." added Nathan. "Pick up some stuff to take back to the dorms when we leave for Italy. Actually, pick up _plenty_ of stuff, so that the goodies don't disappear so fast when we arrive back home."

"What's my limit?"

"No more than fifty USD equivalent."

"Plenty to work with!" finished Erina with a grin. "C'mon guys, let's boogie!"

A few minutes later, the buzz of two-stroke motors from a pair of motorized rickshaws (locally-made _Trisikels_ composed of a Japanese motorcycle and a home-built sidecar designed to seat two or more passengers) heralded the McDonnells' as well as Erina and Michael's approach towards the Isabela City public market. As they rode through the streets of Isabela

City, Brian and Allison took note of the Philippine military consistently on patrol, with army trucks every two or three blocks passing by, loaded with soldiers armed to the teeth with assault rifles and belt-fed machine guns. It was a sight indicative of the tense sociopolitical climate currently presiding over Basilan, and for Brian, it reminded him of his childhood in Belfast, seeing 6x6 Land Rover Defenders operated by the British Army patrolling the streets during 'The Troubles'.

Finally arriving at the market, Michael paid the group's drivers their fare plus a considerable extra to wait for them as they went to pick up food and snacks. Before they entered the market itself, Michael turned to the rest of the group and issued a few orders.

"Here's how we'll do this: Brian and I will go get the main courses and drinks, while you, Erina, will team up with Allison and find all manner of sweets, snacks, street food, and desserts. Meet back here in fifteen minutes, call me if you get lost."

"Sounds like a plan." Erina replied.

"Divide and conquer, folks."

With that, the group split up to search anything that would be worth adding to what would turn into a small banquet for their dinner. Allison and Erina went to hunt down dessert, appetizers in the form of street food and snacks, and of course, a sufficient quantity of local delights that they could bring back to the compound after the mission was over. Within those 15 minutes they were allotted, the girls amassed a large shopping list of items that now sat inside plastic bags, tubs lined with ice, or Styrofoam containers, all of them sweet, or salty, or otherwise savory in taste. Despite the busy atmosphere and constant movement surrounding them, Erina was perfectly able to backtrace hers and Allison's steps to the designated meeting area when Allison suddenly realized that she had no idea where in the market they were located, and took out her iPhone in preparation to ask her shopping buddy for Michael's number after having taken so many twists and turns in an unfamiliar and crowded space.

As they approached the market entrance, Allison and Erina picked Michael and Brian out of the crowd, and from the distance they were at, the girls could smell the aroma of freshly-steamed rice, and meat that had been cooked in some sort of marinade which bore a hint of vinegar and soy sauce with notes of bay leaf, garlic, and black pepper. Their mouths salivated in anticipation, and as they got closer, they could smell even more delicious food.

"You two find everything all right?" Brian asked when they met up.

"We certainly did; I think we may all get fat tonight and have to burn it off on the mission… and then everyone else will get fat with the stuff we bring back!" Allison replied, sharing a giggle with Erina.

"Well, let's not let the food get cold. Back to the garrison." said Michael.

Piling back into the _Trisikels_, the group roared back to the garrison with their purchased bounty, once again riding past the large military presence on the streets of Isabela City before arriving at their destination, Michael paying the _Trisikel_ drivers and tipping them generously for their time.

As the four walked back into the planning room, the smell of dinner permeated the air, and Rico, napping with her body pillow, was the first to notice, as the aroma of the food the group had brought back tickled her nostrils and sent a cue to her brain to rise from her slumber.

"Mmf… is that dinner I smell?" Rico asked, causing Nathan and Jean to look up from the maps they were studying.

"Back already, huh." Jean noted.

"We didn't have to go far into the market to find what we were looking for." Michael replied. "Now how about we clear off the table and ring the dinner bell? This stuff is best while it's still hot or warm."

In short order, the mission planning room was turned into an impromptu dining room, the purchased meals presented in a manner that resembled a buffet or banquet table, properly arranged to attract and entice those who came into the room. The other handlers and cyborgs soon arrived, and were amazed at what they saw.

"Wow." Triela breathed. "It all looks so good!"

"It tastes even better." Michael assured. "Don't be shy, grab a plate and dig in!"

As the rescue team and their host settled into dinner, almost everyone had something to say about the dishes they were giving a try. The first one to inquire was Sarah Golan, at present munching on what appeared to be a deep-fried banana on a barbecue skewer.

"This is delicious!" Sarah exclaimed. "What is this called, again? 'Banana Cue?'"

"That it is, Miss Golan." replied Michael. "The locals make it by frying a plantain banana in oil and then throw brown sugar over it before pulling it out, resulting in the caramelized brown coating. It's some really simple street food enjoyed by just about everyone in the cities."

"This soup is like nothing I've ever tried." said Johanneke. "It's got this sour, almost tart and tangy taste to it, and that taste really soaks into… what is it, Chinese cabbage?"

"_Bok Choy_ is the proper name… and that soup you're having is _Sinigang na Baboy_, a soup that gets its flavor from the Tamarind fruit. Your variation uses pork for the meat, though others use fish, beef, or chicken." Michael explained, earning an approving look from the Afrikaner.

"This stew and these rice cakes go pretty well together." Triela noted. "What's this stuff called?"

"Ah, that would be _Dinuguan_ and _Puto_, respectively." Michael replied. "_Puto_, by the way, has nothing to do whatsoever with Spanish profanity in this context."

"And _Dinuguan_?" Triela inquired further.

"Ah, yes. That stew is made up of various cuts of pork, garlic, chili, vinegar, and pig blood."

Triela went silent when she heard the last ingredient and froze mid-chew, looking at the black substance she had been so eagerly dipping _puto_ into. Knowing what it was composed of made her hesitate to go any further. _Pig blood_? Gross! Maybe ignorance was bliss in this situation, after all!

Then, a voice next to her interrupted her train of thought to play Devil's Advocate. "Come now, Triela. Surely, that's not the absolutely worst thing you've eaten." Hilshire said. "Can't be any worse than 'Wacky Wednesdays,' right?"

Thinking about the theme day for culinary crossovers that occurred weekly at the cafeteria back home, Triela saw the validity in her handler's statement. "You're right. I _have_ had worse than this." Triela responded before pressing on with the consumption of the pig blood stew.

As the sun continued to set, the group got past their entrees and moved onto dessert, which featured local delicacies such as _Halo-Halo_ (fruits and boiled sweet beans mixed with shaved ice and evaporated milk) and _Leche Flan_, which was a heavier version of the Spanish dessert of the same name. Other sweets rounded out the dessert menu, ranging from traditional homemade sweets like _Polvoron_ to popular domestic candies like 'Choc-Nut', both of which they would be taking back home in quantity to the SWA.

Bellies full and hunger sated, the adults rounded out their meal with a round of coffee while the cyborgs took the time to relax and let their metabolisms go to work. A few even went to sleep, like Rico did, entrusting their handlers to wake them up in time for mission preparation.

Others like Erina, however, were planning on staying awake, feeling they'd gotten enough sleep on the flights from London to Hong Kong and Manila. In addition, Erina felt an obligation to put her brain to work with the mission planning in order to provide a return on the investment the American people were most likely unaware they had made on her and the technology she had been imbued with. She approached Nathan and Jean, who had cleared an end of the table to continue planning for the mission that would take place later that evening.

"Excuse me, Erina, but we're busy here." Jean began brusquely. "No cyborgs allowed with mission planning."

"Actually Jean, I would let her in on this." Nathan said. "Gotta put that brain of hers to work, and she's as bright as they come."

"No. Mission planning has, and if I can help it, always will be a handlers-and-staff-only affair."

"Ahem—_Operation Copperhead_ ring a bell?"

"Only because the Chief considered it. But I'm the senior officer on this mission, and what I say goes."

Nathan could see he was getting nowhere. He motioned Erina over and whispered into her ear.

"Go ask Michael for copies of the satellite photos and maps. Use every intel resource available to you and come back with a plan drawn up on the maps. Take as much time as you need."

Erina nodded as she pulled away and turned to go find Michael. If Jean wasn't willing to share, that was no problem—this _was_ a joint operation with the CIA, to a certain extent, and she was technically answerable to them as much as to the SWA. And since the CIA were the ones who had furnished the information for the op, it wasn't much of a stretch for her to go over Jean's head and do some mission planning, herself.

She found Michael cleaning the last of the dishes in a sink down the hall and was able to speak to him as he was drying his hands on an apron that read: **"I could tell you what's in the special sauce, but then I'd have to kill you."**

"Mike, could I ask a favor of you?" Erina began.

"Always." Michael replied. "How can I help you?"

"I need maps of the AO and all the information we have on the area as well as the kind of guys on the ground, from the hostages, to the opposition, and our own forces. I need to know everything from the firepower we're up against to what kind of terrain we'll be going through, and the weather forecast at the time of the op. I'm going to piece this all together into a workable three-phase battle plan which if properly-executed, should go off without a hitch."

"Better hope Murphy's asleep, Erina. Besides, you know what they say. 'No plan survives first contact with the enemy'."

"That's not going to stop me from trying to bulletproof it. They taught me at The Farm that knowledge is as important as firepower, in some cases, even more so. Though, given that it's kinda my job to shoot whatever Nate, the SWA, or the CIA tells me to shoot, I don't think this job can be resolved without firing a shot."

"The time is long since past for any attempt at hostage negotiations. Out here, you 'negotiate' with bullets."

"I have always found that flying lead is a universal language, anyway."

"Right. Let me get you those maps and a Sharpie…"

In short order, Erina found herself at a desk going back and forth between multiple sheets of paper and three copies of the satellite photography taken over the camp where the Morettis were being held hostage. The synapses in her brain fired rapidly, brain cells trading information back and forth faster than any broadband connection as she took stock of the intel laid out before her, analyzed it, and began applying notes and figures to each satellite photo, indicating positions and movements much like play directions in an American Football playbook. Every bit of information she had at her disposal was used to help her script a mission plan, with each movement choreographed and cued by actions that would be taken. Granted, all these would really amount to would be a suggestion, but the plan was solid, from insertion, to the assault and rescue, and the extraction. Every fact and figure that Erina learned from the sheets of paper Michael gave her was factored in, even down to the wind direction at the time of insertion, which would factor into sound and scent traveling towards the camp, something they would need to know in order to keep up the element of surprise. Erina was careful to ensure that she would factor flexibility into her plan, knowing that at some point, the choreography would certainly be interrupted by some x-factor. But for now, at least, the plan was shaping up to be a good one.

Fifteen minutes later, Erina got up from her desk and walked back down the hallway to Jean and Nathan, the latter simply staying there to see what Jean could come up with. As Jean continued to talk, his eyes focused on the maps before him, Erina silently crept into the room, handed off her ideas to Nathan, and then quietly slipped back out. Nathan in turn passed on the completed notes to Jean, who stopped mid-sentence when he saw the plans Erina had drawn up.

"What's this?" Jean asked.

"I had Erina try her hand at drawing up a mission plan separately from us. This is what she came up with."

"I thought I specifically said 'No cyborgs allowed with mission planning.' Do you not listen, Nathan?"

"Sir, with all due respect, I implore you to look at the damn plan. We've been spending a few hours here getting very little done in the way of mission planning. Meanwhile, Erina used all the resources and information available to her—and let us not forget, her cybernetic implants—to come up with a plan factoring in each and every little bit of information available to her in the span of a mere 15 minutes. Now, please look at the plan objectively. Is it solid, are there any flaws you can see?"

Jean remained silent as he looked over the three maps with superimposed notes, indicating everything from positions of their team, on-site assets, the opposing forces, and the hostages, and arrows indicating directions of movement, plus starbursts indicating deployment of the stun grenades she had been issued, and cones and dotted lines indicating fields of fire and direction. A mission timeline had been included on each sheet, indicating what moves were to be made when. The plan was painstakingly detailed, well thought out, and only subject to on-site changes, which was typical of any plan. All of these qualities were present, and Jean saw a very excellent plan, which he was also loathe to admit.

"Well?" Nathan asked.

"…It's a very good plan. No holes in it; I might even say Erina was thorough in planning it." Jean admitted begrudgingly.

"You have any better ideas than this plan?"

"No." Jean conceded. "And now that we have a plan, we need to brief the handlers."

* * *

It was 10PM local time when the rescue team began outfitting themselves for the mission. With the handlers briefed, the _fratello_ were now getting their weapons and equipment ready for deployment into the Philippine jungle. All of them now wore military clothing consisting of Black Tiger Stripe pattern Battle Dress Uniforms accompanied by black jungle boots that went halfway up the shin. While most of the uniforms and boots fit acceptably well on the persons now wearing them, some of the uniforms had to be altered and adjusted for size, like those that Rico and Triela wore. Each uniform bore a subdued American flag shoulder patch that would further mask their true identities. Now, as the handlers and the girls 'suited up', cyborgs and handlers who did not have special forces experience were trying their hand at applying camouflage paint to their faces, guided by experts Brian, Nathan, and Marcus, all three of whom still remembered the proper way to break up the outline of the human face. Allison also taught her sister cyborgs how to apply camo paint, since Brian's survival training also included a lesson on camouflage. First and foremost was darkening one's naturally bright skin tone, which Allison accomplished by applying a generous layer of olive drab grease paint all over her face, neck, and her ears. She then did the same for Rico, who sat perfectly still while Allison did her work. Nearby, Erina did the same for Annette, and Johanneke helped Triela apply the finer details of her face camouflage.

"Hey, do you guys think Kara would ever give this a try? Applying camouflage facepaint, that is?" Allison wondered to her friends.

"I don't think she'd like it very much." Johanneke replied, applying one of several diagonal black stripes to Triela's face. "This isn't the most fashionable thing in the world, exactly, and more than a little different from applying makeup."

"Hmm… for all we know, 'Operator chic' might become a fashion trend sometime in the future if all the fashionistas decide tactical gear is 'in'." Erina mused before breaking into a smile. "I mean, Miguel Caballero is already ahead of the curve. I can already see it at some fashion show or in the pages of a magazine like GQ—'He wears: MC Black Collar shirt by Miguel Caballero/Ballistic Point Sunglasses by Numa Optics/ S.I. Assault boots by Oakley/ Rhodesian Recon Vest by Eagle Industries/ TacLite Pro Mens Ripstop pants by 5.11/ OD Tactical thigh holster by Armani.'"

Triela had a bit of a chuckle at Erina's proposed caption. "Oh yeah? What about ladies?"

"That's where the designers _really_ jump in." Erina replied. "Imagine—'She wears: Ballistic sunglasses by Dolce & Gabbana/Type IIIA concealable ballistic vest by Burberry/Tactical MOLLE Crossdraw vest by Yves Saint Laurent/Tactical Cordura shoulder bag by Louis Vuitton/Womens Ripstop Tactical pants by Gucci/Tan Hot weather assault boots by Christian Louboutin.'"

"Heh. 'Tactical Gear for the fashion-conscious door-kicker.' I like it." Johanneke said with a chuckle.

A few minutes later, the girls and their handlers had finished applying camouflage paint to their faces and quickly checked one another to ensure no parts of their faces would stand out in the darkness of the Philippine Jungle at night. Then, they gathered around the planning table to assign roles to each pair, and walk through the entire plan for the mission.

"All right, everyone. This is a three-phase operation." Jean began as he laid down the first map, pointing to figures and locations as he spoke. "First, insertion. We deploy by helicopter to a location 4 klicks southeast of the target area. From there, we cut our way through the bush until we reach an RZ less than a klick away from the camp, where we link up with the on-site sniper team, callsign Ratel."

Jean shifted to the second map. "Phase two, assault. There will be at least two guards patrolling outside the perimeter of the camp. Marcus, you and Johanneke will sneak up and take them out quietly, while the snipers on-site will deal with the ones in the towers a few more hundred meters away. Then, we move up and into the camp itself. Here, Rico and I will take position in one of the towers and provide overwatch on one side of the camp while the sniper team takes the other tower. The rest of you will split accordingly: I want Erina and Triela breaching the front of the structure where the Morettis are being held while Hilshire and Nathan come through the back. Brian, you and Allison team up with Marcus and flush the enemy from these sleeping quarters into the open; Johanneke, you will partner with Sarah and Annette and do the same to the sleeping quarters across from it. Flashbangs will be deployed at the indicated locations—**do not**, under _any_ circumstances, allow harm to come to the Morettis. This phase should take no longer than ten minutes, fifteen at most. Be as quick as possible, while also being thorough."

Jean brought out the third map. "Phase three, extraction. We will go out the way we came in, but before we leave, we rig the camp to blow. Erina, Nathan, Marcus, and Johanneke will place explosives in their weapons cache and fuel tank. I then want Triela and Johanneke on point as we walk the Morettis out to the LZ. We will move as quick as we can, which means that Mrs. Moretti may have to be carried on a stretcher, so I want Sarah and Annette to be ready for that possibility. Any questions?"

Brian raised his hand. "I assume a fast-rope insertion, then?"

"Correct. Any more questions?" Jean asked. Seeing no more raised hands, he concluded the planning. "All right then. We're in the air in five minutes."

* * *

Five minutes after the conclusion of the briefing, the rescue team had boarded an MH-60L Black Hawk borrowed from the US Army 160th SOAR (Special Operations Aviation Regiment), some of whose pilots and aircraft were tagging along with the Green Berets for cross-training with Philippine Special Forces. Now, as they flew over the Philippine jungle, not a single word was exchanged due to lack of any topic for conversation. There was however, food, as Erina demonstrated by pulling a pair of what seemed like hard-boiled eggs from many folds of cloth inside her knapsack. She handed one to Allison just as Triela asked what they were eating.

"Another snack?"

"Just something we didn't get around to scarfing down at dinner." Erina replied.

"I've only read about this. Now I get to try it." Allison added, tapping away at the eggshell with her finger.

"What's it called?"

"The locals call it _balut_."

"What is it, exactly?"

"You'll see."

Erina managed to chip away a large portion of the eggshell, revealing some kind of grotesque mass that didn't look like it was food at all.

"Ewww! What in the world am I looking at?"

"Fertilized duck embryo, boiled alive in the shell. It's a Southeast Asian delicacy."

"Looks even more unappetizing than that _dinuguan_ I had earlier. You two aren't seriously going to eat that stuff, will you? It doesn't even look edible."

Allison and Erina simply looked at each other before placing the partially open eggs to their lips and tilting their heads back to ingest the contents of their duck eggs, causing Triela's eyes to widen before she wrinkled her face in disgust.

"How was it?" she finally asked.

"Bit too chewy for my tastes." Allison replied.

"Eh. Mine was a bit salty." Erina added. "Wouldn't recommend it, honestly."

Their snacks consumed, Allison and Erina tossed the shells overboard into the jungle below as the Black Hawk continued towards their destination. Meanwhile, Brian sat in one of the jump seats, mulling over what was to come in just a few minutes. They were inserting via fast rope descent, something that he had not done in several years. The last time he had been on a rope dangling from a helicopter was also when his SAS career came to something of an abrupt end. It was a routine training exercise, not even a combat situation, but that certainly didn't stop Murphy from striking that day.

* * *

_The Lynx slowed to a hover over the target building as Brian, legs dangling just over the port side landing skid. Two spots beside him sat his old mate Michael McMillan holding the abseil rope as the helo righted itself. As soon as the Lynx was steady, Mike threw the thick rope overboard, held to the helicopter by the outboard anchor as it uncoiled into a relatively straight line. McMillan, having thrown the rope, hopped on it first, sliding down to the roof of the objective in full kit with practiced ease. The squad member next to him also did the same, leaving Brian to take the rope next. Taking the rope and leaning out over the landing skid, Brian pushed off and began to slide down, and he was halfway down the rope when it suddenly went slack as the anchoring point suddenly gave way, and the 'Belfast Bastard' plunged 12 feet to the roof below, a look of disbelief crossing his face as he fell before landing abruptly on his back._

_In the Lynx, the crew immediately stopped anyone else from descending down the starboard rope as a precaution._

"_Abort! We've got a man down! Someone radio for an ambulance!"_

_Down on the roof, Brian lay immobilized as McMillan and the other 'squaddie' rushed to his aid._

"_Brian! Brian, are you all right?" shouted Michael as he crouched down next to the Ulsterman._

_His vision blurred and swimmy and hearing drastically affected, Brian slowly turned his head, trying to focus on the muffled shouts of the Scotsman next to him._

"_I can't feel m'legs, mate…" Brian reported; there had been a sharp pain upon impact and then nothing from the waist down since._

"_All right, don't try to move any further, we're getting help!" Mike reassured. His words fell on deaf ears, however, as it was at that moment that Brian had faded into unconsciousness._

* * *

Looking back on that day, Brian knew it was a risk that came with the territory of that particular line of work, and that he was lucky compared to others who have gone through a similar experience. Nevertheless, that accident effectively ended his career in the SAS, with Mike taking charge while he was laid up in the hospital, and Brian himself getting honorably discharged just as he was getting back into fighting fit condition. His mother Claire visited him often throughout his recovery, and it was probably her presence that truly helped him to get through the stress and pain of physical therapy and rehabilitation. However, Brian had a feeling that the news of his accident probably made his mother lose a few years off of her lifespan.

Brian was drawn from his thoughts when the pilots announced they were thirty seconds out from the LZ, and everyone stood to. Triela took hold of the coiled abseil rope and prepared to throw it overboard on the port side while Johanneke prepared to deploy the one on the starboard side. As they approached the LZ, the pilots flared the Black Hawk to slow it down before the ropes were deployed, and Johanneke and Triela descended first, weapons slung on their backs. On his side, Allison descended next, giving Brian a thumbs up before she took hold of the rope and descended. Brian watched as his younger sister slid down smoothly and effortlessly, no signs of anything about to give way. The moment she hopped off to go and temporarily secure the area, it was Brian's turn to take the rope. This was his first fast rope insertion ever since his last day in the SAS, and Brian had that lingering, tiny little ball of doubt about his safety. Still, there was a mission to be done, so he swallowed his fear, made his peace with the Lord, and took hold of the rope and descended.

It took about 5 seconds for Brian to reach the ground, and it had been an uneventful descent, not even any beginnings of rope burn. Brian was relieved, and he had finally regained that little bit of confidence he had lost. The rest of the team descended as well, and the ropes were detached from the helicopter as it banked away from the LZ while Marcus and Johanneke collected the ropes. Erina, meanwhile, figured out their direction of travel via her eyepiece as well as map and compass.

"This way." She said, pointing in a northwestern direction. Johanneke took the lead, brandishing her bolo knife and slashing through the tall grass. The group traveled in a diamond pattern, with Johanneke and Marcus up front, Triela and Hilshire covering the left, Jean and Rico keeping watch on the right, and Allison and Brian took care of rear security. They continued cutting their way through the jungle in this fashion for a few kilometers until Erina held her fist up, signaling the rest of the group to stop. Her eyepiece indicated that they had reached the waypoint for the rendezvous. Prompted by this, she went to raise the sniper team on the radio.

"Ratel, this is Wolf Pack. We are at the rendezvous point, over."

A few moments passed in silence. Puzzled, Erina tried again.

"Ratel, this is Wolf Pack. We are at the rendezvous point, do you read, over?"

The team was on edge now. The mission was possibly compromised if the sniper team didn't contact them soon. As Erina was about to try a third time, Ratel finally responded.

"Wolf Pack, this is Ratel, sorry for the late response, we had the radio turned down. We copy on your status; we'll be with you in a second, over."

A moment later, two figures materialized from the darkness, covered in the quintessential ghillie suits utilized by United States Marine Corps Scout Snipers. One carried a suppressed Remington MSR sniper rifle while his spotter held a suppressed M4A1 kitted out with various attachments.

"You guys have a sitrep for us?" Nathan asked.

"Situation remains the same, the packages haven't been moved from their room, and the place is still teeming with tangoes." replied the sniper.

"Enemy numbers?"

"We counted thirty hostiles. Most of them are in their living quarters, five of them are guarding the packages and about five more guarding the perimeter." the spotter reported.

"Weapons?" asked Erina.

"Small arms, at least the ones we could see. Mostly some old M16's and CAR-15's, but there's a couple with AK's and at least one PKM. We don't know what's in their armory, though."

"Best not to let them get to it, then." Erina replied. At that moment, the wind blew harshly, and the first patters of rain started to fall.

"Right on schedule. The weather's moving in, let's get a move on while we can still use it as concealment."

Jean was going to reprimand the American-built cyborg for speaking out of turn, but quickly agreed instead. "What she said. Let's move."

As the rain began to intensify with each passing second, the sniper team led the rescue team towards the terrorist camp, halting a certain distance from the perimeter where the guards' patrol distance reached its limit. The sky had truly begun to open up now, and the first flash of lightning was followed several seconds later by the boom of thunder. The ensuing downpour had an effect on the behavior of the guards patrolling on foot, as they were in no mood to be out of cover from the offending raindrops. They turned around and sought shelter indoors, altering the original plan a tiny bit.

"Marcus, you and Johanneke take out the guards in the towers so that Rico and the snipers can provide overwatch. Do it quietly."

"On it," replied the Maori, who nodded to his younger charge, who set down her M60E4. The two set off, creeping silently through the grass, using the weather to mask the noise of their movement. It helped that the guards manning the towers were being negligent, looking the wrong way with the assumption anyone intending to come to the camp would wait until it was dry and calm to visit. Their ignorance was exploited for all it was worth as Marcus and Johanneke made it to the ladders under each tower and began climbing, careful not to jostle the structure and alert the guards to their presence. It was slow, tense work, but when they reached the top, the guards were undisturbed and still unaware of their presence; optimal conditions to surprise the enemy with the savagery the fratello was about to inflict.

Marcus and Johanneke both eased themselves onto the platforms of the guard towers and approached their quarries. Marcus unsheathed a Fairbairn-Sykes Commando Knife, and with the speed of a Cobra's strike, took the guard from behind and clamped a gloved hand over his opponent's mouth and stabbed the insurgent through the heart before withdrawing his blade to slash his throat, and then made a final stab at the base of the insurgent's skull, piercing the medulla oblongata and ceasing the his motor functions as he fell limp.

Johanneke's kill was more violent, using her bolo to simultaneously disarm and dismember her target before forcing him to the floor and severing his head with one quick stroke. She had more difficulty keeping the guard silent, but the thunder that boomed (hopefully) drowned out his very brief cry of surprise before her bolo knife separated his head from his shoulders. It was not a clean kill like her handler had done, and soon, blood soiled the rainwater pooling on the platform of the guard tower. Their kills done, Marcus and Johanneke checked to make sure no one in the camp was looking in the direction of the guard towers before unceremoniously dumping the bodies (and body parts) over the side or through the access hole and signaling to the rest of the rescue team hiding in the treeline to move up. As they regrouped at the camp entrance, Marcus and Johanneke descended the ladders before joining the group, Annette handing Johanneke her M60 back as Erina handed out her remote-control stun grenades to anyone else who would be breaching.

"When you're in position, remove the pin to arm them and deploy on my mark." Erina instructed. "These have to go off at the same time, and I'll set the detonator up to do so. Once they go off, weapons free."

Erina then paused a moment before turning to Jean. "Sorry, Commander Croce. Was there anything else you needed to add?"

"Don't miss." stated Jean firmly. "Now, to your positions."

* * *

While the rescue team scattered themselves into the insurgent camp outside, Ahmed was getting off the phone with a negotiator inside the main building where the Morettis were being held captive.

"_PUTANG-INA!" _Ahmed cursed, throwing the satellite phone.

"**What's the problem, Ahmed?"** queried Fadir.

"_**The infidels are asking for more time to get the money together. Do they think I am an idiot? Do they not take my threats seriously?"**_

"_**Maybe they really do need more time to get the money together, Ahmed. Remember that you are negotiating with a government; they are slow and ponderous in their decision-making."**_

"_**They are LYING to me, Fadir! They are lying and stalling so that they can send their soldiers to kill us all ! I won't stand for that. We will kill the hostages first, and we will send the infidels a message in doing so."**_

Fadir stiffened. Ahmed was really going to kill the Morettis. Remembering his promise to them, Fadir went to grab his MAC-10 but found his hand abruptly and painfully stopped just inches away when a combat knife was driven through the back of his hand and into the table. Managing to avoid crying out in pain, Fadir grimaced as his situation continued to deteriorate when Ahmed jammed the muzzle of a Browning Hi-Power against his right temple.

"_**My suspicions about you were correct, Fadir. You didn't seem to support this idea very much, and I suspected you might betray me."  
**__  
__**"Only because I don't believe in killing women and children, Ahmed."**_Fadir stated in his defense._**"The moment you cross that line, you are no worse than trash, in my eyes."**__**"You are a coward and a traitor, Fadir!"**_Ahmed roared._**"If you believed in our cause, you would understand that we spare no mercy for infidels! And when you join them in death, you will receive no mercy, just like them."**_

Ahmed then turned to one of his more obedient subordinates.

"_**Restrain him and then get the camera. We end this tonight."**_

* * *

Outside, the team had spread out, making their way to their assigned positions. The few lone insurgents that were out and about were dispatched from long distance by Rico or the Marine snipers, and the bodies were quickly hidden. Now, as Erina and Triela took their place at the front of the primary target structure while their handlers circled around the back, Erina activated her remotely-triggered stun grenade, removing the plastic pin which closed a circuit and turned on a small red LED that confirmed it was functioning, and a green LED on her wrist-mounted trigger lit up to confirm the signal. She then keyed the 'talk' button on her throat mic to check in with the others.

"Team 1 is set to breach, over." An additional LED belonging to Hilshire and Nathan's flashbang glowed green.

"Team 2 is in position, over." Radioed Brian.

"Team 3 is set to go, over." Sarah added, a fourth green LED glowing to confirm all flashbangs were active.

Across from Erina, Triela pulled back the charging handle on her Benelli slightly to ensure that a Hatton breaching shell was in battery. The first three shells to be fired and cycled were Hatton rounds meant to destroy the hinges and lock of the door in front of them, followed by double-ought buckshot to deal with opponents inside. Once her Benelli ran dry, she would switch to her M1911, simply because there would be no time to reload.

"All teams standby." Radioed Erina. "Wait for my mark, over."

Receiving a series of two clicks from each team as acknowledgment, Erina extended a fiber-optic 'snake cam' scope from her eyepiece and tucked the lens under the crack of the door. Immediately, she saw several pairs of feet traveling towards the back of the corridor, whereupon they turned right to enter a room. Hearing voices coming from the small window behind her, Erina took the snake cam and repositioned it on the windowsill and panned the lens about. She found the Morettis sitting off to one side while another man dressed similarly to the insurgents was on his knees, hands bound behind his back while another insurgent who appeared to be the leader read passages from the Quran as several other insurgents stood on either side of him. Another insurgent appeared to be capturing the whole thing on video. Just as Erina came to the conclusion that an execution was being taped, the reader brandished a Bolo of his own and raised it above the bound man's head.

"_Allahu Akbar!"_

The blade came down, and Erina winced at the sight. Inside, the Morettis gasped in shock, seeing Fadir beheaded on the spot. Their potential savior was dead, and fear gripped them once again as two of the other insurgents grabbed the couple and pulled them in front of Ahmed, who ordered them to get down on their knees.

"Shit!" Erina swore as she retracted the snake cam. Keying her throat mic as she prepared to lob the stun grenade through the window, she barked out her orders.

"All teams deploy flash on 'three'! One…two…THREE!"

Simultaneously, four stun grenades were lobbed into their targets, and Erina punched the trigger on her remote, setting off a series of loud, disorienting explosions one after the other across the camp as her hand moved down to her UMP. Triela quickly aimed and fired three breaching rounds into the door before twisting the fire selector to semi-automatic as she brought the door down with her shoulder and sprinted in, Erina hot on her heels. Triela turned left at the first room to clear it, blasting off shotgun rounds at disoriented insurgents while Erina continued to the room where the execution was taking place, and as she rounded the corner, time seemed to slow down as her so-called 'bullet time' ability kicked in. as she brought up her UMP, her EOTech immediately lined up with the first insurgent she saw, and she squeezed the trigger, snapping off a two-round burst that struck the insurgent's temple. Shifting her aim, she continued in similar fashion going clockwise, delivering precision double-taps on target, resulting in several headshots that neutralized all the tangoes in the room in the span of two seconds. However, the Morettis quickly used the diversion to make their escape before they could be stopped, and Erina had to radio to the handlers covering the rear.

"Nate! Packages headed your way!"

Luckily, Nathan and Hilshire were ready, and managed to restrain the Morettis, who struggled as the two handlers tried to get them to calm down.

"Mr. and Mrs. Moretti, calm down! We're here to rescue you!" shouted Nathan in English as Ronaldo thrashed about.

"Signora Moretti, your uncle sent us, you're safe now!" Hilshire added in Italian, which finally registered with Isabella as she stopped struggling.

Elsewhere in the camp, the other teams ambushed the escaping insurgents in a hail of suppressed gunfire as they filed out of their sleeping quarters. An extended burst from Johanneke's M60 cut most of them down, and Marcus mopped up the stragglers who sought shelter inside their sleeping quarters with his AG36. Nearby, Brian and Allison cleared out the armory, occupied by two surprised insurgents who were reaching for their weapons. Just as her M4 ran dry, another insurgent came charging at them with a knife, and Allison quickly whirled around, drew her 1911, and placed two rounds in his chest and a third in his head, dropping the man like a sack of bricks. Another one, apparently behind the first, had turned to run, but a bullet sent downrange by Rico finished him off.

"Team 2, armory cleared, over." Allison radioed.

"Team 3; sleeping quarters cleared, over." Sarah announced.

"This is Team 1; main building clear and packages secure. All teams regroup, over." Reported Erina.

As the handlers and cyborgs reunited at the main building, the adrenaline of the situation began to wear off, and Isabella sank to her knees, unable to stand for the stress of her situation and the heavy weight in her belly. She was breathing hard now, and Hilshire traded looks with Nathan, both sharing the uneasy notion that the operation they had just executed could result in some health complications for Mrs. Moretti. Jean walked up to her and used his calmest, most reassuring voice, speaking to her in Italian.

"Signora Moretti, are you able to walk?"

"Not really…" replied the pregnant former hostage with a shake of her head. "It feels as if I've lost all the strength in my legs."

"Don't worry, we can put you on a stretcher." Jean replied, then nodding to Annette and Sarah.

"So the prime minister sent you all to rescue us? Are you Italian, or American special forces?" Ronaldo asked as the two medics unfolded a portable stretcher to place his wife on.

"Italian."

"But your uniforms—"

"Provided to us by the Americans supporting us in this operation." Hilshire elaborated. "Part of the whole 'Global War on Terror' and all that."

"Hey, we'll meet you guys at the entrance, we just need to go plant our charges in the ammo cache and fuel tank." Nathan announced.

Jean nodded, and turned to the rest of the team as Nathan, Erina, Marcus, and Johanneke moved off to rig their explosives. "Let's move."

A few moments later, the group was ready to move out, Triela and Johanneke taking point and following the path the latter had cut through the tall grass with the Golan sorella behind them carefully transporting Isabella who lay on the stretcher, her husband moving alongside her.

At the back of the group, Nathan and Erina brought up the rear with the sniper team as the handler produced his radio detonator, flicked off the safety, and called out to make sure everyone was aware of what was to happen.

"FIRE IN THE HOLE!"

Nate slammed his fist on the switch, and the ammunition cache went up in a fireball, as did the fuel tank, resulting in a massive explosion that lit up the night. The blast wave rustled the trees around them as they continued moving to the LZ for extraction. Erina radioed their progress to HQ, where Michael was monitoring the situation.

"Wolfpack to Wolf Den, Packages are safe and secure. Requesting Exfil at pre-designated LZ, over." Erina said over the radio.

"Acknowledged, Wolfpack. Pelican One is already en route to the LZ as of 20 mikes ago. ETA is ten mikes, over."

"Understood, Wolf Den. Wolfpack out."

Erina turned to Jean and reported the news. "Our extraction arrives at the LZ in ten minutes. Should we double-time it and get there in five, sir?"

"Only if you can move at an increased pace without making too much of a bumpy ride for Mrs. Moretti." Jean replied.

"I can manage that. I _am_ a cyborg, after all." Erina said with an air of confidence.

"Then switch places with Miss Sarah."

"On it. Miss Sarah! I'll take your place!"

Sarah and Annette stopped for a few seconds so that Sarah could hand off her end of the stretcher to Erina, and as they rejoined the group, Jean gave the order to increase their pace, and they took off towards the LZ at pace with Sarah and Erina adjusting the manner in which they held Isabella's stretcher so that their running would not bounce or jar her as she laid on the stretcher. The rain had stopped at this point, the skies clear once again as moonlight allowed the group to see where they were going along the path they came in through. Soon enough, they arrived at the clearing in the jungle where they had been dropped off, with enough time to rest, catch their collective breath, and have a drink of water (or in Erina's case, unwrap an energy bar) while they waited for their ride out. Sarah came over to Annette, Erina, and the Morettis as they rested. Since the two former hostages had managed to escape injury during their ordeal, Sarah's concern now was primarily Isabella's condition as a mother-to-be and how much stress that the flashbangs and gunfire of the rescue operation had placed on the Prime Minister's niece.

"How are you feeling, Signora Moretti?" Sarah asked.

"I've had better days," replied Isabella with a weak smile. "I'm hanging in there, though."

"Keep hanging on, Signora Moretti. In a few minutes, we'll be on a helicopter to bring you to a safe and secure place for you and your child."

"We are forever grateful," said Ronaldo. "It is thanks to your entire team that we escaped certain death tonight."

"Not to ruin your appreciation, but I would recommend saving those words for when you're finally in a hospital and having a healthy child brought into the world. In some ways, we are still in danger, there's just slightly less of it." Sarah replied, taking the wind out of Ronaldo's sails.

"Well, we're gonna be in even less danger in a few seconds. Our ride out is here." Erina announced as an MH-47G Chinook swooped in above to land in the clearing they were scattered in. As the ramp came down, four soldiers, presumably from U.S. Army Special Operations, fanned out and covered the ramp as the SWA rescue team came together and went to file into the Chinook. As Erina and Annette carried Isabella into the helicopter and it finally lifted off, she felt a powerful contraction and something inside of her give way, followed immediately by the sudden dampening of her undergarments. This could only mean one thing, and she waved Sarah over.

"You're a medic, right?"

"Yes."

"Good, because I think I'm going into labor. My water just broke."

Sarah returned a look to Isabella that clearly showed her surprise. Then, Sarah replied sheepishly, almost apologetically:

"I'm sorry, Signora Moretti, but I have no prior experience in delivering an infant."

Panicked and experiencing another contraction, Isabella placed her hands on Sarah's shoulders in desperation and pulled her in.

"Then please, find someone who does!"

"What's going on?" Jean demanded.

"Signora Moretti is going into labor. I don't suppose you know how to deliver an infant?"

Jean was caught off-guard, and then: "No. Don't you?"

"I'm a medic trained to patch up gunshot wounds! I don't exactly have much experience bringing newborns into the world, and if I don't know how, neither does Annette!"

The argument was becoming audible now, and with everyone else finding the truth behind the latest argument, they were still standing still, unable to actually do anything about the situation while Isabella and Ronaldo were together in a corner of the passenger cabin, engaging in breathing exercises to try and keep the former calm and ready to deliver their baby without overexerting herself as the pilots took a heading for the nearest available medical facilities. Amidst the chaos, Triela appeared to stare into space as an unwelcome memory from another time assailed her, and she fought hard to keep it from taking her away from the current reality, but it was persistent, and she soon found herself in the corner of a dark warehouse room that smelled of death, her skin filthy with dirt and grime and dried blood.

Ignoring those details, however, her attention was drawn towards the center of the room, dimly lit, where a woman was screaming out in pain while three men around her watched. One of them was waiting between her legs, which were spread apart over a less-than-clean towel with her underwear removed, the man's hands covered in what looked to be latex gloves of questionable sterility until the man next to him poured a generous amount of isopropyl alcohol over them, presumably as disinfectant. He then ordered the woman, now howling in pain, to push, barking at her in Italian as the man propping her up from behind produced a handgun and pressed it against the back of her head. The woman pleaded in a language Triela could not understand until the man holding her at gunpoint cocked the hammer audibly, making the woman quiet down, take a few deep breaths, and then put effort into pushing something out of her body. The woman put herself through immense strain as she pushed, but slowly, something began to emerge from her birth canal with each push.

Finally, the woman gave one last prolonged grunt, and in one motion, pushed out a newborn infant, who began squalling after it took its first breath in the hands of the man with the sterilized gloves. For a few minutes, the infant was handed to his weary mother as the men waited a few minutes for the placenta to come out of the mother, as the child's umbilical cord was still attached. After several minutes passed, the placenta fell out, and the man who received the infant as it was pushed out tied off the infant's umbilical cord a few inches from his navel and severed the rest of it with a large knife. Then, after wrapping the infant in a blanket, the gloved man nodded to his assistant, who took the infant from his mother. The woman began to scream in protest as she watched her newborn son be taken away, but as the last man began to exit the room, he pressed the muzzle of his pistol against her temple and pulled the trigger, the woman's head exploding on the opposite side before she crumpled and remained still forevermore. That was the last image Triela saw before she was brought back to the present with Hilshire calling her name and shaking her gently.

"Triela? Triela, can you hear me? Triela, are you all right?"

The 'princess' blinked before seeing Hilshire as he repeated his question. "I saw something just now, I think it might be a memory from before the SWA…"

"Are your conditioning problems getting worse?"

"Maybe." Triela replied, trailing off as she looked at the otherwise helpless Morettis and then back to Hilshire.

"Hilshire, I know what to do."

"What do you mean?"

"In my memory, I saw a woman giving birth and the people around her who were helping her. I know what to do here."

"Triela, you can't just—"

"Why not?" she asked, gesturing to the others making a commotion. "They all seem to either not know anything or have forgotten everything at this exact moment, when Signora Moretti needs help the most! Let me do this Hilshire, please!"

Hilshire sighed. There was no stopping Triela, and it probably wouldn't hurt to give her a chance; it seemed she was right for now.

"Everyone, move down! Give Triela and the Morettis room to work!" shouted the handler. Everyone turned to see Triela helping Ronaldo ease his wife onto the floor of the fuselage. Before even Jean could ask why things were proceeding as they were, Annette and Sarah were already approaching Triela to render assistance since she already appeared prepared to take on the task of assisting in the delivery of the Morettis' first child.

"Triela, you seem pretty confident right now." Sarah said. "Are you sure you know how to do this?"

"Right now, I'm more sure than anyone else at the moment, Miss Sarah. First things first—place some cushioning under Signora Moretti to support her. Make sure she's comfortable as can be for this. I'm also going to need a clean towel or blanket to place under her for when the baby comes out, and I'll need some antiseptic wipes on hand and some sterile medical gloves."

Right away, Annette rummaged around in her medical kit and produced the gloves and some alcohol wipes while Sarah searched the aircraft for anything that could be used for cushioning and retrieved some inflatable life vests, which she promptly activated before setting them down behind Isabella to lean on. The life vests weren't the most comfortable cushions in the world, but they would be adequate as field-expedient solutions. She then unfurled a survival blanket from her own medical kit, laying it down underneath Isabella's legs as Triela removed the imminent mother's underwear from underneath her dress, prompting the other SWA personnel to look away and give the group further down some semblance of privacy.

Triela then met the sight in front of her with a certain amount of detached professionalism. This was no time to get squeamish, so she quickly sterilized her hands and arms with the alcohol wipes and then donned the sterile nitrile gloves Annette had given her. Taking a deep breath, she then looked up at Isabella.

"Whenever you feel ready, Signora Moretti. I'm here to help."

While Triela kneeled at the ready in front of Isabella, it was the mother-to-be who bore the brunt of the effort to bring her child into the world, recalling the classes she and her husband took and all the lessons learned in order to ease the pain of childbirth without resorting to anesthetic. It was a slow and grueling process, but Triela and Ronaldo both encouraged Isabella as she struggled to push out her child. What seemed like an eternity passed by as the only sounds in the passenger cabin of the Chinook were the engine and rotor blades outside and Isabella's pained grunts of effort. Thankfully, Triela was seeing progress, and it seemed as if one more good push would be enough to expel the newborn from Isabella's body.

"One last push, Signora Moretti! You can do it! Take a deep breath and push!" Triela goaded.

Isabella did a quick series of inhales and exhales, preparing herself for the final effort despite the already considerable pain between her legs. Then, she drew in a deep breath and pushed, a drawn-out scream escaping her throat rather than any exhalation.

"AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

With her last push, her newborn child finally vacated her lower body, amniotic fluid lubricating its body as it slid somewhat haphazardly into Triela's arms. She managed to keep a firm but gentle grip, however, and the infant coughed up a mouthful of amniotic fluid before crying from the discomfort of its new surroundings as she lightly patted its back before carefully turning over the child to determine gender visually. With a grin that cut a flash of white through her camouflaged face, she handed the child over to the weary parents.

"Congratulations, Signor and Signora Moretti. You have a healthy baby girl."

The Morettis smiled as Isabella took their noisy newborn daughter into her arms. With the crying, the rest of the rescue team once again looked towards the front of the cabin, where the Morettis were holding their newborn child as Sarah managed to procure a towel from one of the pilots in the cockpit, and after carefully cleaning off the additional amniotic fluid coating the new addition to the Moretti family, the newborn was covered by the towel as she lay on Isabella's chest. After several minutes passed, the placenta was also expelled from Isabella's body, and Triela, still operating on her observations from her memory, waited 5 minutes before tying off the umbilical cord a few inches from the infant girl's navel and then cutting the rest of the umbilical cord away from the knot. After re-wrapping the Morettis' daughter in the towel, careful to help muffle the disturbing racket of the helicopter, Triela handed the child off back to her parents.

"So, what is your daughter's name?" Triela asked as she covered Isabella's lower body with another survival blanket also procured from the cockpit.

"Well, we did have some names in mind…" replied Isabella, "But at the moment, I've failed to remember them—"

Ronaldo then interrupted, leaning down to Isabella's ear to say something before she continued.

"—And my husband says given tonight's events, we would find it more appropriate if we named her after the person who not only helped rescue us, but bring her into the world."

Triela's eyes widened in surprise. "No, that's not necessary! Please, name her as you wish."

"We wish to name her after _you_. What is your name?"

Triela glanced at Hilshire, waiting for an answer. In response, he gave her a reassuring smile and nodded his assent.

"Triela. My name is Triela."

"Triela, we'd like to introduce you to our daughter, Triela Moretti. Would you like to hold her a while?"

"I would be honored."

The 'Princess' of Section 2 once again took the Morettis' daughter into her arms, cradling the newborn gently. Holding the tiny life in her arms was an experience she hoped she would not soon forget. The baby in her arms was precious, and like many precious things in life, she was fragile and needed to be protected. It was why, Triela thought, the reason she was with the Social Welfare Agency. Her occupation may have been one of violence, but her occupation was necessary for the safety of those who could not defend themselves, much like the newborn she held in her arms. In undertaking missions to hunt and kill the Padania and other evil men around the world, she was making the world a better place for children like Triela Moretti to grow up in; a world with less evil in it, even if evil had to be paid unto evil to achieve the result.

* * *

**New World Hotel, Makati City, Metro Manila**

With their return flight to Italy not departing until two days after the rescue operation took place, the Section 2 team had been given lodgings at the New World Hotel, ensuring a certain proximity to the airport in addition to being prepared to escort the Morettis back to Italy. The bill for the accommodations would be footed by the CIA, which would likely be compensated in some sort of trade later on. What it meant at the moment, however, were warm, soft beds and sumptuous meals for all the fratelli involved in the operation, and after having spent the previous evening getting soaked in the Philippine jungle, the comforts of civilization were as good a reward as any.

In Hilshire and Triela's suite, the handler insisted that Triela take her evening shower first, given all that she had gone through in the past several hours. Even after helping to bring a child named after her into the world, Triela was also asked by the new parents if she could stay long enough for them to include her in their first 'family photo'. The request had to be discussed with Jean, who was already irritated about his lack of control over the proceedings of the mission. While initially inclined to deny the couple their request, Nathan managed to talk Jean into letting Triela go ahead with the request, provided that Triela wore a surgical mask to cover up the majority of her face, which in the end made for an unusual family photo that would remain on the mantle at the Moretti Family's residence back in Italy for years to come.

At the moment, Triela was in the midst of rinsing the suds from her body when she felt a chill envelop her entire body, even though the water coming from the showerhead was plenty hot. This was a different sort of cold, one that accompanied the flashes of unwanted memories flying through her mind, and Triela began to cower, sinking to her knees and clutching herself under the stream of water.

"No…" she whimpered to no one in particular. "Go away! I don't want to remember that! I don't want to remember any of it!"

Her pleas went unanswered, however, and Triela now hugged her knees as her personal nightmare continued and terrible sights, smells, sensations, and emotions assailed her senses: the smell of blood and filth, memories of a dark, dimly-lit room with a single video camera, the feeling of rough hands pawing all over her body, and finally, terror and pain as a saw cut into her leg and continued to tear back and forth through muscle and bone, her screaming muffled as a person holding the video camera hovered the lens so close to her face, she could see the reflection of her terrified expression.

"Make it stop…" Triela pleaded, tears now flowing from her face as they mingled with the water from the shower. "Please make it stop…"

Suddenly, the chill that flooded her body began to leave, and the terrible flashbacks she saw behind closed eyelids were washed away by a bright light, everything had gone white, and a gentle warmth replaced the harsh coldness from earlier. Triela could not see anything, but for some reason, she did not feel afraid; rather, she felt relieved, like a great weight had been lifted off her shoulders. And then a voice called out to her from somewhere in that bright light.

"_There there, my child."_ A motherly voice reassured. _"You have done a great deed, and I am very proud of you, my dear Triela."_

"Who are you?" Triela asked, almost whispering.

"_Someone who is always watching over you, Triela. Be safe, and continue to fight the good fight, my little princess."_

"Wait! Who are you?"

Triela began to snap back to reality, the gentle warmth now being the physically comforting warmth of her shower, but as she opened her eyes, for a brief moment, she caught a glimpse of a woman who for some reason looked familiar, but Triela could not place a name to the face, and the next moment, the woman she had seen disappeared in the steam of her shower.

"Triela!" Hilshire called from the other side of the door, worry in his voice. "Is everything all right in there?"

"Yes, Hilshire! I'm all right!"

"Just wanted to make sure. Take as much time as you need, but keep it reasonable, all right?"

"Got it."

Turning away from the bathroom door, Triela placed her hands to her chest. Her heartbeat was normal and steady now.

"I'm definitely all right now…" she said to herself, smiling warmly.


End file.
